“I believe with Savonarola in other miracles,” continued the count, in a louder tone, addressing himself directly to Enrica, on whom he gazed with a tender expression—­he was far too much engrossed with her and with the subject to heed Trenta’s feeble remonstrance—­“I believe in the mystic essence of soul to soul—­I believe in the reappearance of the disembodied spirit to its kindred affinity still on earth—­still clothed with a fleshly garment.  I believe in those magnetic influences that circle like an atmosphere about certain purified and special natures, binding them together in a closely-locked embrace, an embrace that neither time, distance, nor even death itself, can weaken or sever!”

He paused for an instant; a dark fire lit up his eyes, which were still bent on Enrica.

“All this I believe—­life would be intolerable to me without such convictions.  At the same time, I am ready to grant that all cannot accept my views.  These are mysteries to be approached without prejudice—­mysteries that must be received absolutely without prejudice of religion, country, or race; received as the aesthetic instinct within us teaches.  Who,” he added, and as he spoke he stood erect on the steps of the altar, his arms outstretched in the eagerness of argument, his grand face all aglow with enthusiasm—­“who can decide?  It is faith that convinces—­faith that vivifies—­faith that transforms—­faith that links us to the hierarchy of angels!  To believe—­to act on our belief, even if that belief be false—­that is true religion.  A merciful Deity will accept our imperfect sacrifice.  Are we not all believers in Christ?  Away with creeds and churches, with formularies and doctrines, with painted walls and golden altars, with stoled priests, infallible popes, and temporal hierarchies!  What are these vain distinctions, if we love God?  Let the whole world unite to believe in the Redeemer.  Then we shall all be brothers—­you, I—­all, brothers—­joined within the holy circle of one universal family—­of one universal worship!”

Count Marescotti ceased speaking, but his impassioned words still echoed through the empty aisles.  His eyes had wandered from Enrica; they were now fixed on high.  His countenance glowed with rapture.  Wrapped in the visions his imagination had called forth, he descended from the altar, and slowly approached the silent group gathered beside the monumental stone.

Enrica had eagerly drunk in every word the count had uttered.  He seemed to speak the language of her secret musings; to interpret the hidden mysteries of her young heart.  She, at least, believed in the affinity of kindred spirits.  What but that had linked her to Nobili?  Oh, to live in such a union!

Trenta had become very grave.