cowardice, cunning, meanness or weakness marred the expressive dignity and openness of the Cardinal’s countenance,—­the very poise of his straight spare figure and the manner in which he moved, silently asserted that inward grace of spirit without which there is no true grace of body,—­and as he paused in his slow pacing to and fro to gaze half-wistfully, half-mournfully upon the almost ghastly artistic achievement of “Le Mourant” he sighed, and his lips moved as if in prayer.  For the brief, pitiful history of human life is told in that antique and richly-wrought alabaster,—­its beginning, its ambition, and its end.  At the summit of the shrine, an exquisite bas-relief shows first of all the infant clinging to its mother’s breast,—­a stage lower down is seen the boy in the eager flush of youth, speeding an arrow to its mark from the bent bow,—­then, on a still larger, bolder scale of design is depicted the proud man in the zenith of his career, a noble knight riding forth to battle and to victory, armed cap-a-pie, his war-steed richly caparisoned, his lance in rest,—­and finally, on the sarcophagus itself is stretched his nude and helpless form, with hands clenched in the last gasping struggle for breath, and every muscle strained and fighting against the pangs of dissolution.

“But,” said the Cardinal half aloud, with the gentle dawning of a tender smile brightening the fine firm curve of his lips,—­“it is not the end!  The end here, no doubt;—­but the beginning—­there!”

He raised his eyes devoutly, and instinctively touched the silver crucifix hanging by its purple ribbon at his breast.  The orange-red glow of the sun encompassed him with fiery rings, as though it would fain consume his thin, black-garmented form after the fashion in which flames consumed the martyrs of old,—­the worn figures of mediaeval saints in their half-broken niches stared down upon him stonily, as though they would have said,—­“So we thought,—­even we!- -and for our thoughts and for our creed we suffered willingly,—­yet lo, we have come upon an age of the world in which the people know us not,—­or knowing, laugh us all to scorn.”

But Cardinal Bonpre being only conscious of a perfect faith, discovered no hints of injustice or despair in the mutilated shapes of the Evangelists surrounding him,—­they were the followers of Christ,—­and being such, they were bound to rejoice in the tortures which made their glory.  It was only the unhappy souls who suffered not for Christ at all, whom he considered were truly to be compassionated.

“And if,” he murmured as he moved on—­“this knight of former days, who is now known to us chiefly, alas! as ‘Le Mourant’, was a faithful servant of our Blessed Lord, why then it is as well with him as with any of the holy martyrs.  May his soul rest in peace!”