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the future. You were a woman-you had the gift of pity in you. Oh, God! So low had I fallen, I would have snatched even at your pity. But you had a tongue, also, to scourge-to kill! It cured me. I should be grateful for that! When I knew Baglioni loved you, no miserable prisoner ever seized on his chance of freedom with greater joy than I. You had become a stumbling-block in my life, a thing that confronted me at every turn to shame me! You made a coward of me, in the streets, on the battlefield, and above all when I had to face the full blast of your accursed pride. With Baglioni's power, I would have surrendered my city and my people to her enemies. You were suffering from this devil's work, you were sacrificing your life in black hovels where no woman should go. You were robbing me of my manhood. God gave me liberty at last!"

formed the word "Better." But to him she seemed as icy, as unattainable as in the beginning.

She followed him, blind, deaf, speechless. Nothing could save her now. Because her pride was herself, she felt this to be death. Yet she was conscious that, it being the feast of the Visitation of the most Blessed Virgin, she murmured an incoherent prayer to the Mother of God.

Malatesta Baglioni stood in the middle of the great marble-floored room, and met her with the deepest of obeisances. He had the face of a high-born Tuscan, long, pale, with a short, rounded chin. Behind him, a little to the left, was a Franciscan monk, old, thin, wasted, with a hawk-like nose and small, black eyes set wide apart. "Fra Masseo," she heard them say, His Holiness' confessor, himself.

He gave her his blessing, eyeing her with great keenness the while, then: "Daughter, the Sovereign Pontiff has heard your cry and answered you."

She had no thought, no wish to stay him. Once she had looked on the Beloved City as she might gaze on beauty for the first time; but now her eyes Time, time-she wanted time-for were closed, and her face like her own what? She could not say. She was Carrara marble. hemmed in by an inevitable fate. Her "You spare me nothing, Geronimo pride sealed her lips to all outward reCasella."

The dregs of his humiliation were bitter to this man. He would strip her pride as naked as he had stripped his own. He had all the passion of the people, which only she could rouse and— tame.

"Even to the end. I had a secret joy you could not rob me of. It was my money which kept this roof above your head, put bread into your mouth. You lavished my money on the poor around you, then flung it in my face-to taunt me. Better, perhaps, that I should tell you this than that you should hear it from-Malatesta Baglioni." He sought to justify himself.

All light faded. The city lay in darkness beneath its shroud. Her lips

bellion, but time to dwell on this crushing blow before it fell must be given her.

"I would crave permission, holy father, before I receive my uncle's favor to pray in my oratory."

He signed assent. She turned to the other two men, including them in a glance which did not dwell on either.

"You, Messeri, will accompany us."

They followed her, Baglioni smiling, to a dim oratory, where ancient windows admitted narrow beams of light. A faintly-burning lamp glowed in the darkness before the Santissimo. She sank on her knees.

The monk prayed, in Latin, a wellknown prayer which even the Baglioni knew by heart.

Amen. They arose.

She crossed the chapel to where the monk was turning to leave. She put out her hand to stay him. ""The Magnificat"-she spoke like one suffocating. "It is our Lady's feast. 'The Magnificat.'" She was too lost in herself to notice the look on Fra Masseo's face. "Daughter, we delay too long." "The Magnificat,'" she said again. The Franciscan bit his lips, hesitated, seemed to glance at the dark figure behind him, then knelt again.

There was a long pause.

Nera Ubbriachi had gone back to her agony and hidden her face. When the first words of the "Magnificat" fell on her ear in slow and halting accents their divine meaning calmed her.

She lifted her head and gazed into the darkness where the monk knelt. Upon the prie-dieu before him, he had spread an open Missal; the softly-glowing sanctuary lamp caught the glint, of the gold-illuminated "Magnificat." Her hands fell away to her sides; she watched him with parted lips, wide eyes, and a suffocation in her heart and throat.

The reading was over. He closed the book and put it back into its place. They filed out slowly, solemnly, into the bare room they had left.

Upon Nera Ubbriachi had settled a new air that robbed her face of all its youth and softness; such a look as a woman might wear who was about to fight the world for her life and sell it dearly.

The monk spread the yellow parchments upon a table, and seating himself thereat, read aloud the decree of annulment of marriage between Nera Giuseppa Maria Ubbriachi and Geronimo Naldo Maria Casella, as set forth by His Holiness, the Sovereign Pontiff, the Lord Pope Clement XIII.

The two men stood a little behind her, one, softly, silently exultant, the other with a deep disdain upon his hard, square face.

She broke the profound silence that followed the reading.

"This is a time to speak of marriage, is it not? While Florence lies dying, and her murderers rejoice unpunished without her walls. They may sleep without fear of a champion to do them battle. Ferucci is dead."

The monk looked up; he was about to speak, to rebuke her, perhaps, for the exceeding bitterness of her tone, but Baglioni interrupted him.

"Your words are wild, Monna Nera. If Florence lies unavenged it is because the avenging of her at this time would work the final ruin of our unhappy city.

"Unhappy, indeed!" She did not look at him, nay, even had her back to him. "She has no more bitter enemies outside her walls than those who hide within them."

"I told you," said Casella, with a slow, twisted smile, "she has a tongue to Scourge to kill."

His voice seemed to arouse some great passion in her; what little color she had, faded.

"As for that document there," she went on as if none had spoken, "I shall not sign it."

There was a faint sensation.

"My daughter!" came from the monk, in shocked rebuke. "You speak of a mandate from His Holiness, who has ruled that by the law of the Church you and Geronimo Casella are not man and wife."

"If it be already irrevocable, of what avail then my signature?"

Fra Masseo answered directly.

"This document is to be returned to His Holiness to satisfy him that it has not fallen into evil hands, but has been safely attested by those for whom it is intended."

"What if I say that that document― forgery-call it what you will—has fallen into evil hands? That you, Malatesta

Baglioni, have tried to sell your city in vain."

Baglioni gave a quick exclamation, made a step nearer her, felt Casella's hand upon his arm. There was a momentary crisis.

"Nera Ubbriachi!" The monk alone

seemed capable of speaking, for though the woman's face was still, it was rigid and deathly. "Heaven save your madness! What mean you?"

She was gazing steadily at the monk, heedless of the quick breathing behind her.

"Is the 'Magnificat' so new a prayer that a Franciscan monk needs to read it from a book?"

The breathing became faster; there was a movement, a cry, an instant's pause, then a second cry, broken and stifled, and Casella's deep, guttural"You devil!" as he flung a dagger clattering far on the marble floor.

All was betrayed. The man who was no monk, but a creature of Baglioni, sprang to his feet and dashed across the room-but she reached the dagger first and fled to Casella. Baglioni lay on his back, face upturned and still; the other, seeing this, stayed, saw the livid white

ness of Casella's face, fled past him through the open window on to the sunlit terrace beyond.

"God!" said Casella thickly. "He would have sold his city, and Clement would have none of him! Curse my blindness!"

Tell me you did not know!"

"You did not know! Oh! Heaven!

She was trembling violently, shaken from head to foot, speaking in a faint whisper. He was blind to everything but the deadly wrong done her.

"It was a trick-a damnable trick to cheat you give me that dagger!" He was livid.

“Oh, no! no! Oh, God! no!"

She was on her knees between her husband and the unconscious man. "Are such as he fit to live?" He was lost in the storm of passion. "I will not have any part of you contaminated by such as he! Let him go! He will reap his own sowing. Geronimo, Geronimo! Have pity on me!"

He saw at last!

He said her name faintly, quickly, catching her two outstretched hands.

And that is why the "Magnificat" hangs in Casa San Domenico in its Cinque Cento frame.

Day and Night

By Denis Aloysius McCarthy

All day I seek the mean reward
That falls to earthly strife;

All day the thought of Thee, O Lord,
Is crowded out of deed and word,

Is crowded out of life.

But when I shake my spirit free
From earthly chains at night,
The vaulted dusk is filled with Thee,
And every star becomes to me

A holy altar-light!

(Adapted from the German)

By WILLIAM J. FISCHER

WHO has not heard of the invasion,

during the stormy days of the Revolution, of the King's palace by the rabble that had congregated in the royal gardens at Verseilles? The crowds ransacked the royal apartments from floor to roof; everything that was not nailed down was stolen, and many a one present on that awful occasion, later on felt ashamed and little prized his booty, for stolen goods never profit the thief because the curse of God ever clings to them like some deadly, slimy thing.

One, especially, who had done his share of stealing had accidentally come upon a crucifix, which had been trampled into the ground by busy feet. At first he thought he had found something valuable, but upon closer scrutiny the crucifix seemed to him a worthless article, and when he came home he madly threw it into a corner of his dirty attic, filled with a useless accumulation of all sorts of articles of wood, iron and tin. And here the crucifix lay until 1834. In this year, the old sinner died. He had been a gardener by trade, and his familiar figure on the various street-corners was missed by many. Wife and children he had none, and thus his relatives placed all his possessions in the hands of a lawyer. Everything was to be auctioned off. The people came from all over the city, and the sale of goods began.

He

Now, in this same city lived a poor, young artist whose life-scenes were not overbright. They had a hint of cold, cheerless, autumn skies in them. was clever, studious, and understood his art and the blending of colors perfectly. He had no money, he had no great friends, whose influence could do so

much for him-without this one cannot make it go in Paris at all—and often he sat without a bite of bread in his narrow little room in the attic on the Rue St. Antoine, and almost despaired.

Only a short time before, a wealthy aristocrat wanted one of his dancinghalls decorated in oils, and, on the verge of starvation, Pierrot eagerly took advantage of the opportunity-like a dying man clutching his last straw of hope.

A pious mother had early taught Pierrot how to pray, and when Want and Despair walked with him and touched him with their black, uncanny wings, he never faltered, but hoped on steadfastly; and Prayer came to him like some sweet, pure-faced maiden, in her eyes the glory of the sun and moon and stars, and on her lips the melodies of hope and joy— called forth by the artistic fingers of the Divine One. Want, suffering, sorrowglorious trinity-after all were sweet and dear to him. They brought him nearer to that Master-touch which controls all life and its various, mysterious, intricate feelings and emotions.

"The path of sorrow, and that path alone,

Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;

No traveller ever reached that blest abode

Who found not thorns or briars in his road."

Pierrot was pious and he remained so, and he kept his soul pure-free to think and act-white as the lily that raises herself gladly to her Creator. His companions mocked and mimicked him for keeping the Sabbath holy, for going to church and for staying the angry passions that they would not resist, but

through all this narrow, silly mockery he did not permit himself to go astray. He remained true to the finer impulses of his schooled heart.

Through many long night-watches, Pierrot's bed had been on a bundle of straw, but now, since his work on the millionaire's salon had brought him in some revenue, he determined to make good use of it. Only an hour since, he had heard of the sale in his neighborhood, and he made it his business to learn all particulars. The old gardener had been a cleanly old fellow, and rumor had it that, among many things, an almost new bed was to be auctioned off.

The young painter ran his pale, wasted fingers through his black hair, and for a moment was lost in thought. Suddenly a light came into his sad eyes. Turning, he unlocked his little bank and emptied the contents on the table. The paintings in the dancinghall had brought him exactly three hundred francs, and out of this he had already purchased necessary articles of clothing. A clear hundred francs were all he had left, and a sigh fell from his lips. "Will I be able to buy the bed after all?" he asked himself with trembling heart. At such sales-they are of regular daily occurrence in our large cities-the people swarm in by the hundreds, and often strange and wonderful things happen. Be there many bidders on hand, then the trash becomes expensive; be there a scarcity, then the good things go off for a little song almost.

And thus it came about at the sale in the neighborhood; the bidders were few, although the crowd was great, and Pierrot purchased bed, coverings and all for seventy-five francs. His heart quickened and rejoiced. Quickly he paid the money and ordered them to carry the goods to his cold, poorly-furnished apartments. No one was richer or happier than he now. Another twenty-five francs were still tickling the anxious

points of his finger-tips. "Return to the sale again?" he asked himself. "Perhaps I can buy something else that I need sorely." It was said-it was done. When Pierrot arrived, the sale was just about over. A few old things that had lain in the corner of the attic were now being offered amid much mockery and laughter. Now the auctioneer held up a crucifix that was old and used-looking, being furthermore covered here and there with lumps of dry earth. It passed along from one to the other-from hand to hand. "It is only lead," cried one. "I offer half-a-franc," cried another. "One franc!" yelled a third.

Pierrot trembled and chilled inwardly. "They spurn the picture of the Saviour, the sign of Redemption, because it is a little crude," he thought to himself, and loudly, so that every one with ears could hear him, he yelled: "Five francs!" The auctioneer handed him the crucifix with a derisive bow, and the artist paid his money, took his crucifix under his arm amid the hissing and mocking laughter of the crowd, and left, angry and trembling on account of the rudeness and behavior of these degenerates.

In the meantime, his landlady had been busy arranging his room; the bed was set up, and clean linens whitened the appearance of the humbly-furnished apartments. Everything looked fresh. and cheerful, and as Pierrot stepped into the cozy atmosphere he felt like a new man. Gladly he placed the crucifix on the table, and then strode out into the air for a walk. The autumn clouds in his life-scene had shifted; there was a kindlier look on the face of nature. radiant brightness now rested on sky, on field, on bird and flower, and his young heart fairly revelled in the light that shone beyond the white-capped clouds in the distant horizon. A new feeling was overpowering him-he felt it, he knew it, and it fairly set his nerves a-tingling. He was glad. In the future,

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