And the shout once taken up, drowned the strong voices of the singers as long-drawn thunder drowns the pattering of the raindrops and the sighing of the wind.

The wonderful face, that seemed to be carved out of transparent alabaster, smiled and slowly turned from side to side as it passed by.  The thin, fragile hand moved unceasingly, blessing the people.

Orsino Saracinesca saw and heard, and his young face turned pale while his lips set themselves.  By his side, a head shorter than he, stood his father, lost in thought as he gazed at the mighty spectacle of what had been, and of what might still have been, but for one day of history’s surprises.

Orsino said nothing, but he glanced at Sant’ Ilario’s face as though to remind his father of what he had said half an hour earlier; and the elder man knew that there had been truth in the boy’s words.  There were soldiers in the church, and they were not Italian soldiers—­some thousands of them in all, perhaps.  They were armed, and there were at the very least computation thirty thousand strong, grown men in the crowd.  And the crowd was on fire.  Had there been a hundred, nay a score, of desperate, devoted leaders there, who knows what bloody work might not have been done in the city before the sun went down?  Who knows what new surprises history might have found for her play?  The thought must have crossed many minds at that moment.  But no one stirred; the religious ceremony remained a religious ceremony and nothing more; holy peace reigned within the walls, and the hour of peril glided away undisturbed to take its place among memories of good.

“The world is worn out!” thought Orsino.  “The days of great deeds are over.  Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die—­they are right in teaching me their philosophy.”

A gloomy, sullen melancholy took hold of the boy’s young nature, a passing mood, perhaps, but one which left its mark upon him.  For he was at that age when a very little thing will turn the balance of a character, when an older man’s thoughtless words may direct half a lifetime in a good or evil channel, being recalled and repeated for a score of years.  Who is it that does not remember that day when an impatient “I will,” or a defiant “I will not,” turned the whole current of his existence in the one direction or the other, towards good or evil, or towards success or failure?  Who, that has fought his way against odds into the front rank, has forgotten the woman’s look that gave him courage, or the man’s sneer that braced nerve and muscle to strike the first of many hard blows?

The depression which fell upon Orsino was lasting, for that morning at least.  The stupendous pageant went on before him, the choirs sang, the sweet boys’ voices answered back, like an angel’s song, out of the lofty dome, the incense rose in columns through the streaming sunlight as the high mass proceeded.  Again the Pope was raised upon the chair and borne out into the nave, whence in the solemn silence the thin, clear, aged voice intoned the benediction three times, slowly rising and falling, pausing and beginning again.  Once more the enormous shout broke out, louder and deeper than ever, as the procession moved away.  Then all was over.