The jubilee of the Mountain Madonna fell on the feast of thePurification. It was mid-November, but with a sky of June. The autumnrains had ceased for the moment, and fields and orchards glistened witha late verdure.

　　Never had the faithful gathered in such numbers to do honour to thewonder-working Virgin. A widespread resistance to the influences of freethought and Jansenism was pouring fresh life into the old formulas ofdevotion. Though many motives combined to strengthen this movement, itwas still mainly a simple expression of loyalty to old ideals, aninstinctive rallying around a threatened cause. It is the honestconviction underlying all great popular impulses that gives them theirreal strength; and in this case the thousands of pilgrims flocking onfoot to the mountain shrine embodied a greater moral force than thepowerful ecclesiastics at whose call they had gathered.

　　The clergy themselves were come from all sides; while those that wereunable to attend had sent costly gifts to the miraculous Virgin. TheBishops of Mantua, Modena, Vercelli and Cremona had travelled to Pianurain state, the people flocking out beyond the gates to welcome them. Fourmitred Abbots, several Monsignori, and Priors, Rectors, Vicars-generaland canons innumerable rode in the procession, followed on foot by thehumble army of parish priests and by interminable confraternities of allorders.

　　The approach of the great dignitaries was hailed with enthusiasm by thecrowds lining the roads. Even the Bishop of Pianura, never popular withthe people, received an unwonted measure of applause, and thewhite-cowled Prior of the Dominicans, riding by stern and close-lippedas a monk of Zurbaran's, was greeted with frenzied acclamations. Thereport that the Bishop and the heads of the religious houses in Pianurawere to set free suppers for the pilgrims had doubtless quickened thisoutburst of piety; yet it was perhaps chiefly due to the sense of comingperil that had gradually permeated the dim consciousness of the crowd.

　　In the church, the glow of lights, the thrilling beauty of the music andthe glitter of the priestly vestments were blent in a melting harmony ofsound and colour. The shrine of the Madonna shone with unearthlyradiance. Hundreds of candles formed an elongated nimbus about herhieratic figure, which was surmounted by the canopy of cloth-of-goldpresented by the Duke of Modena. The Bishops of Vercelli and Cremona hadoffered a robe of silver brocade studded with coral and turquoises, thedevout Princess Clotilda of Savoy an emerald necklace, the Bishop ofPianura a marvellous veil of rose-point made in a Flemish convent; whileon the statue's brow rested the Duke's jewelled diadem.

　　The Duke himself, seated in his tribune above the choir, observed thescene with a renewed appreciation of the Church's unfailing dramaticinstinct. At first he saw in the spectacle only this outer and symbolicside, of which the mere sensuous beauty had always deeply moved him; butas he watched the effect produced on the great throng filling theaisles, he began to see that this external splendour was but the veilbefore the sanctuary, and to realise what de Crucis meant when he spokeof the deep hold of the Church upon the people. Every colour, everygesture, every word and note of music that made up the texture of thegorgeous ceremonial might indeed seem part of a long-studied andastutely-planned effect. Yet each had its root in some instinct of theheart, some natural development of the inner life, so that they were infact not the cunningly-adjusted fragments of an arbitrary pattern butthe inseparable fibres of a living organism. It was Odo's misfortune tosee too far ahead on the road along which his destiny was urging him. Ashe sat there, face to face with the people he was trying to lead, heheard above the music of the mass and the chant of the kneeling throngan echo of the question that Don Gervaso had once put to him:--"If youtake Christ from the people, what have you to give them instead?"He was roused by a burst of silver clarions. The mass was over, and theDuke and Duchess were to descend from their tribune and venerate theholy image before it was carried through the church.

　　Odo rose and gave his hand to his wife. They had not seen each other,save in public, since their last conversation in her closet. The Duchesswalked with set lips and head erect, keeping her profile turned to himas they descended the steps and advanced to the choir. None knew betterhow to take her part in such a pageant. She had the gift of drawing uponherself the undivided attention of any assemblage in which she moved;and the consciousness of this power lent a kind of Olympian buoyancy toher gait. The richness of her dress and her extravagant display ofjewels seemed almost a challenge to the sacred image blazing like arainbow beneath its golden canopy; and Odo smiled to think that hischildish fancy had once compared the brilliant being at his side to thehumble tinsel-decked Virgin of the church at Pontesordo.

　　As the couple advanced, stillness fell on the church. The air was fullof the lingering haze of incense, through which the sunlight from theclerestory poured in prismatic splendours on the statue of the Virgin.

　　Rigid, superhuman, a molten flamboyancy of gold and gems, thewonder-working Madonna shone out above her worshippers. The Duke andDuchess paused, bowing deeply, below the choir. Then they mounted thesteps and knelt before the shrine. As they did so a crash broke thesilence, and the startled devotees saw that the ducal diadem had fallenfrom the Madonna's head.

　　The hush prolonged itself a moment; then a canon sprang forward to pickup the crown, and with the movement a murmur rose and spread through thechurch. The Duke's offering had fallen to the ground as he approached tovenerate the blessed image. That this was an omen no man could doubt. Itneeded no augur to interpret it. The murmur, gathering force as it sweptthrough the packed aisles, passed from surprise to fear, from fear to adeep hum of anger;--for the people understood, as plainly as though shehad spoken, that the Virgin of the Valseccas had cast from her the giftof an unbeliever...

　　***The ceremonies over, the long procession was formed again and set outtoward the city. The crowd had surged ahead, and when the Duke rodethrough the gates the streets were already thronged. Moving slowlybetween the compact mass of people he felt himself as closely observedas on the day of his state entry; but with far different effect.

　　Enthusiasm had given way to a cold curiosity. The excitement of thespectators had spent itself in the morning, and the sight of theirsovereign failed to rouse their flagging ardour. Now and then a cheerbroke out, but it died again without kindling another in theuninflammable mass. Odo could not tell how much of this indifference wasdue to a natural reaction from the emotions of the morning, how much tohis personal unpopularity, how much to the ominous impression producedby the falling of the Virgin's crown. He rode between his peopleoppressed by a sense of estrangement such as he had never known. He felthimself shut off from them by an impassable barrier of superstition andignorance; and every effort to reach them was like the wrong turn in alabyrinth, drawing him farther away from the issue to which it seemed tolead.

　　As he advanced under this indifferent or hostile scrutiny, he thoughthow much easier it would be to face a rain of bullets than thiswithering glare of criticism. A sudden longing to escape, to be donewith it all, came over him with sickening force. His nerves ached withthe physical strain of holding himself upright on his horse, ofpreserving the statuesque erectness proper to the occasion. He felt likeone of his own ancestral effigies, of which the wooden framework hadrotted under the splendid robes. A congestion at the head of a narrowstreet had checked the procession, and he was obliged to rein in hishorse. He looked about and found himself in the centre of the squarenear the Baptistery. A few feet off, directly in a line with him, wasthe weather-worn front of the Royal Printing-Press. He raised his headand saw a group of people on the balcony. Though they were close athand, he saw them in a blur, against which Fulvia's figure suddenlydetached itself. She had told him that she was to view the processionwith the Andreonis; but through the mental haze which enveloped him herapparition struck a vague surprise. He looked at her intently, and theireyes met. A faint happiness stole over her face, but no recognition waspossible, and she continued to gaze out steadily upon the throng belowthe balcony. Involuntarily his glance followed hers, and he saw that shewas herself the centre of the crowd's attention. Her plain, almostQuakerish habit, and the tranquil dignity of her carriage, made her aconspicuous figure among the animated groups in the adjoining windows,and Odo, with the acuteness of perception which a public life develops,was instantly aware that her name was on every lip. At the same momenthe saw a woman close to his horse's feet snatch up her child and makethe sign against the evil eye. A boy who stood staring open-mouthed atFulvia caught the gesture and repeated it; a barefoot friar imitated theboy, and it seemed to Odo that the familiar sign was spreading withmalignant rapidity to the furthest limits of the crowd. The impressionwas only momentary; for the cavalcade was again in motion, and withoutraising his eyes he rode on, sick at heart...

　　***At nightfall a man opened the gate of the ducal gardens below theChinese pavilion and stepped out into the deserted lane. He locked thegate and slipped the key into his pocket; then he turned and walkedtoward the centre of the town. As he reached the more populous quartershis walk slackened to a stroll; and now and then he paused to observe aknot of merry-makers or look through the curtains of the tents set up inthe squares.

　　The man was plainly but decently dressed, like a petty tradesman or alawyer's clerk, and the night being chill he wore a cloak, and had drawnhis hat-brim over his forehead. He sauntered on, letting the crowd carryhim, with the air of one who has an hour to kill, and whoseholiday-making takes the form of an amused spectatorship. To such anobserver the streets offered ample entertainment. The shrewd airdiscouraged lounging and kept the crowd in motion; but the openplatforms built for dancing were thronged with couples, and everypeep-show, wine-shop and astrologer's booth was packed to the doors. Theshrines and street-lamps being all alight, and booths and platforms hungwith countless lanterns, the scene was as bright as day; but in theever-shifting medley of peasant-dresses, liveries, monkish cowls andcarnival disguises, a soberly-clad man might easily go unremarked.

　　Reaching the square before the Cathedral, the solitary observer pushedhis way through the idlers gathered about a dais with a curtain at theback. Before the curtain stood a Milanese quack, dressed like a noblegentleman, with sword and plumed hat, and rehearsing his cures instentorian tones, while his zany, in the short mask and green-and-whitehabit of Brighella, cracked jokes and turned hand-springs for thediversion of the vulgar.

　　"Behold," the charlatan was shouting, "the marvellous Egyptianlove-philter distilled from the pearl that the great Emperor Antonydropped into Queen Cleopatra's cup. This infallible fluid, handed downfor generations in the family of my ancestor, the High Priest of Isis--"The bray of a neighbouring show-man's trumpet cut him short, andyielding to circumstances he drew back the curtain, and a tumbling-girlsprang out and began her antics on the front of the stage.

　　"What did he say was the price of that drink, Giannina?" asked a youngmaid-servant pulling her neighbour's sleeve.

　　"Are you thinking of buying it for Pietrino, my beauty?" the otherreturned with a laugh. "Believe me, it is a sound proverb that says:

　　When the fruit is ripe it falls of itself."The girl drew away angrily, and the quack took up his harangue:--"Thesame philter, ladies and gentlemen--though in confessing it I betray aprofessional secret--the same philter, I declare to you on the honour ofa nobleman, whereby, in your own city, a lady no longer young and no wayremarkable in looks or station, has captured and subjugated theaffections of one so high, so exalted, so above all others in beauty,rank............