“There is a plot among the Catholics.  They intend destroying the Abbey to-morrow with explosives.  I knew that the Pope—–­”

Percy cut him short with a gesture.

CHAPTER VI

I

The volor-stage was comparatively empty this afternoon, as the little party of six stepped out on to it from the lift.  There was nothing to distinguish these from ordinary travellers.  The two Cardinals of Germany and England were wrapped in plain furs, without insignia of any kind; their chaplains stood near them, while the two men-servants hurried forward with the bags to secure a private compartment.

The four kept complete silence, watching the busy movements of the officials on board, staring unseeingly at the sleek, polished monster that lay netted in steel at their feet, and the great folded fins that would presently be cutting the thin air at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.

Then Percy, by a sudden movement, turned from the others, went to the open window that looked over Rome, and leaned there with his elbows on the sill, looking.

* * * * *

It was a strange view before him.

It was darkening now towards sunset, and the sky, primrose-green overhead, deepened to a clear tawny orange above the horizon, with a sanguine line or two at the edge, and beneath that lay the deep evening violet of the city, blotted here and there by the black of cypresses and cut by the thin leafless pinnacles of a poplar grove that aspired without the walls.  But right across the picture rose the enormous dome, of an indescribable tint; it was grey, it was violet—­it was what the eye chose to make it—­and through it, giving its solidity the air of a bubble, shone the southern sky, flushed too with faint orange.  It was this that was supreme and dominant; the serrated line of domes, spires and pinnacles, the crowded roofs beneath, in the valley dell’ Inferno, the fairy hills far away—­all were but the annexe to this mighty tabernacle of God.  Already lights were beginning to shine, as for thirty centuries they had shone; thin straight skeins of smoke were ascending against the darkening sky.  The hum of this Mother of cities was beginning to be still, for the keen air kept folks indoors; and the evening peace was descending that closed another day and another year.  Beneath in the narrow streets Percy could see tiny figures, hurrying like belated ants; the crack of a whip, the cry of a woman, the wail of a child came up to this immense elevation like details of a murmur from another world.  They, too, would soon be quiet, and there would be peace.

A heavy bell beat faintly from far away, and the drowsy city turned to murmur its good-night to the Mother of God.  From a thousand towers came the tiny melody, floating across the great air spaces, in a thousand accents, the solemn bass of St. Peter’s, the mellow tenor of the Lateran, the rough cry from some old slum church, the peevish tinkle of convents and chapels—­all softened and made mystical in this grave evening air—­it was the wedding of delicate sound and clear light.  Above, the liquid orange sky; beneath, this sweet, subdued ecstasy of bells.