all astir, —­the Rhinelanders are an early working people, and to see the sun rise is not with them a mere fiction of poesy, but a daily fact.  It was one of the loveliest of lovely spring mornings—­the sky was clear as a pale, polished sapphire, and every little bib of delicate carving and sculpture on the Dom stood out from its groundwork with microscopically beautiful distinctness.  And as his gaze rested on the perfect fairness of the day, a strange and sudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind,—­he felt as one prepared for some high and exquisite happiness,—­some great and wondrous celebration or feast of joy!  The thoughts of death, on which he had brooded so persistently during the past yester-eve, had fled, leaving no trace behind,—­only a keen and vigorous delight in life absorbed him now.  It was good to be alive, even on this present earth! it was good to see, to feel, to know! and there was much to be thankful for in the mere capability of easy and healthful breathing!

Full of a singular light-heartedness, he hummed a soft tune to himself as he moved about his room,—­his desire to view the interior of the Cathedral had not abated with sleep, but had rather augmented,—­and he resolved to visit it now, while he had the chance of beholding it in all the impressive splendor of uncrowded tranquillity.  For he knew that by the time he was dressed, the first Mass would be over,—­the priests and people would be gone,—­and he would be alone to enjoy the magnificence of the place in full poet-luxury,—­the luxury of silence and solitude.  He attired himself quickly, and with a vaguely nervous eagerness,—­he was in almost as great a hurry to enter the Dom as he had been to arrive at the Field of Ardath!  The same feverish impatience was upon him—­impatience that he was conscious of, yet could not account for,—­his fancy busied itself with a whole host of memories, and fragments of half-forgotten love-songs he had written in his youth, came back to him without his wish or will,—­ songs that he instinctively felt belonged to his Past, when as “Sah-luma” he had won golden opinions in Al-Kyris.  And though they were but echoes, they seemed this morning to touch him with half-pleasing, half-tender suggestiveness,—­two lines especially from the Idyl of Roses he had penned so long,—­ah! so very long ago,—­ came floating through his brain like a message sent from some other world,—­

   “By the pureness of love shall our glory in loving increase,
    And the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace.”

The “lilies of peace” and the flowers of Ardath,—­the “roses of passion” and the love of Edris, these were all mingled almost unconsciously in his thoughts, as with an inexplicable, happy sense of tremulous expectation,—­expectation of he knew not what-he went, walking as one in haste, across the broad Platz and ascended the steps of the Cathedral.  But the side-entrance was fast shut, as on the previous night,—­he therefore made his rapid way round to the great western door.  That stood open,—­the bell had long ago ceased,—­Mass was over,—­and all was profoundly still.