“In the sixth century, the flagstones in this portion of the nave were raised for the burial of a distinguished lady, a member of the Manzi family; but oh! stupendous prodigy!”—­the cavaliere cast up his eyes to heaven, and clasped his dimpled hands—­“no sooner had the coffin been lowered into the vault prepared for it, than the corpse of the lady of the Manzi family sat upright in the open bier, put aside the flowers and wreaths piled upon her, and uttered these memorable and never-to-be-forgotten words:  ’Bury me elsewhere; here lies the body of San Frediano.’”

Baldassare, who had grown very pale, now shuddered visibly, and contemplated the cavaliere with awe.

“Stupendous!” he muttered—­“prodigious!—­Indeed!”

Enrica did not speak; her eyes were fixed on the ground.

“Yes, yes, you may well say prodigious,” responded Trenta, bowing his white head; then, looking round triumphantly:  “It was prodigious, but a prodigy, remember, vouched for by the chronicles of the Church.  (Chronicles of the Church are much more to be trusted than any thing else, much more than Evangelists, who were not bishops, and therefore had no authority—­we all know that.) No sooner, my friends, had the corpse of the lady of the Manzi family spoken, as I have said, than diligent search was made by those assembled in the church, when lo!—­within the open vault the remains of the adorable San Frediano were discovered in excellent preservation.  I need not say that, having died in the odor of sanctity, the most fragrant perfume filled the church, and penetrated even to the adjacent streets.  Several sick persons were healed by merely inhaling it.  One man, whose arm had been shot off at the shoulder-joint many years before, found his limb come again in an instant, by merely touching the blessed relic.”  The cavaliere paused to take breath.  No one had spoken.—­“Have you heard the miracle of the glorious San Frediano?” asked Trenta, a little timidly, raising his voice to its utmost pitch as he addressed Count Marescotti.

“No, I have not, cavaliere; but, if I had, it would not alter my opinion.  I do not believe in mediaeval miracles.”  As he spoke, Count Marescotti turned round from the steps of a side-altar, whither he had wandered to look at a picture.  “I did not hear one word you said, my dear cavaliere, but I am acquainted with the supposed miracles of San Frediano.  They are entirely without evidence, and in no way shake my conclusions as to the utter worthlessness of such legends.  In this I agree with the Protestants,” he continued, “rather than with that inspired teacher, Savonarola.  The Protestants, spite of so-called ‘ecclesiastical authority,’ persist in denying them.  With the Protestants, I hold that the entire machinery of modern miracles is false and unprofitable.  With the Apostles miraculous power ended.”

“Marescotti!” ejaculated the poor cavaliere, aghast at the effect his appeal had produced, “for God’s sake, don’t, don’t! before Enrica—­and in a church, too!”