“Look at her! she is beautiful as the Madonna!” said one and another, “She is divine as Santa Catarina!” said others.  “She might have been the wife of our chief, who is a nobleman of the oldest blood, but she chose to be the bride of the Lord,” said others:  for Giulietta, with a woman’s love of romancing, had not failed to make the most among her companions of the love-adventures of Agnes.

Agnes meanwhile was seated on her palfrey, and the whole train passed out of the court-yard into the dim, narrow street,—­men, women, and children following.  On reaching the public square, they halted a moment by the side of the antique fountain to water their horses.  The groups that surrounded it at this time were such as a painter would have delighted to copy.  The women and girls of this obscure mountain-town had all that peculiar beauty of form and attitude which appears in the studies of the antique; and as they poised on their heads their copper water-jars of the old Etruscan pattern, they seemed as if they might be statues of golden bronze, had not the warm tints of their complexion, the brilliancy of their large eyes, and the bright, picturesque colors of their attire given the richness of painting to their classic outlines.  Then, too, the men, with their finely-moulded limbs, their figures so straight and strong and elastic, their graceful attitudes, and their well-fitting, showy costumes, formed a no less imposing feature in the scene.  Among them all sat Agnes waiting on her palfrey, seeming scarcely conscious of the enthusiasm which surrounded her.  Some admiring friend had placed in her hand a large bough of blossoming hawthorn,—­which she held unconsciously, as, with a sort of childlike simplicity, she turned from right to left, to make reply to the request for prayers, or to return thanks for the offered benediction of some one in the crowd.

When all the preparations were at last finished, the procession of mounted horsemen, with a confused gathering of the population, passed down the streets to the gates of the city, and as they passed they sang the words of the Crusaders’ Hymn, which had fluttered back into the traditionary memory of Europe from the knights going to redeem the Holy Sepulchre.

    “Fairest Lord Jesus,
    Ruler of all Nature,
  O Thou of God and man the Son! 
    Thee will I honor,
    Thee will I cherish,
  Thou, my soul’s glory, joy, and crown!

    “Fair are the meadows,
    Fairer still the woodlands,
  Robed in the pleasing garb of spring: 
    Jesus shines fairer,
    Jesus is purer
  Who makes the woful heart to sing!

    “Fair is the sunshine,
    Fairer still the moonlight,
  And all the twinkling starry host;
    Jesus shines fairer,
    Jesus is purer,
  Than all the angels heaven can boast!”