“The pictures fill me with emotion, but not such as you seem to experience,” said Donatello.  “I tremble at those awful saints; and, most of all, at the figure above them.  He glows with Divine wrath!”

“My dear friend,” said Kenyon, “how strangely your eyes have transmuted the expression of the figure!  It is divine love, not wrath!”

“To my eyes,” said Donatello stubbornly, “it is wrath, not love!  Each must interpret for himself.”

The friends left the church, and looking up, from the exterior, at the window which they had just been contemplating within, nothing; was visible but the merest outline of dusky shapes, Neither the individual likeness of saint, angel, nor Saviour, and far less the combined scheme and purport of the picture, could anywise be made out.  That miracle of radiant art, thus viewed, was nothing better than an incomprehensible obscurity, without a gleam of beauty to induce the beholder to attempt unravelling it.

“All this,” thought the sculptor, “is a most forcible emblem of the different aspect of religious truth and sacred story, as viewed from the warm interior of belief, or from its cold and dreary outside.  Christian faith is a grand cathedral, with divinely pictured windows.  Standing without, you see no glory, nor can possibly imagine any; standing within, every ray of light reveals a harmony of unspeakable splendors.”

After Kenyon and Donatello emerged from the church, however, they had better opportunity for acts of charity and mercy than for religious contemplation; being immediately surrounded by a swarm of beggars, who are the present possessors of Italy, and share the spoil of the stranger with the fleas and mosquitoes, their formidable allies.  These pests—­the human ones—­had hunted the two travellers at every stage of their journey.  From village to village, ragged boys and girls kept almost under the horses’ feet; hoary grandsires and grandames caught glimpses of their approach, and hobbled to intercept them at some point of vantage; blind men stared them out of countenance with their sightless orbs; women held up their unwashed babies; cripples displayed their wooden legs, their grievous scars, their dangling, boneless arms, their broken backs, their burden of a hump, or whatever infirmity or deformity Providence had assigned them for an inheritance.  On the highest mountain summit—­in the most shadowy ravine—­there was a beggar waiting for them.  In one small village, Kenyon had the curiosity to count merely how many children were crying, whining, and bellowing all at once for alms.  They proved to be more than forty of as ragged and dirty little imps as any in the world; besides whom, all the wrinkled matrons, and most of the village maids, and not a few stalwart men, held out their hands grimly, piteously, or smilingly in the forlorn hope of whatever trifle of coin might remain in pockets already so fearfully taxed.  Had they been permitted, they would gladly have knelt down and worshipped the travellers, and have cursed them, without rising from their knees, if the expected boon failed to be awarded.