Baldassare, who had grown very pale, now shuddered visibly, and contemplated the cavaliere with awe.
"Stupendous!" he muttered—"prodigious!—Indeed!"
Enrica did not speak; her eyes were fixed on the ground.
"Yes, yes, you may well say prodigious," responded Trenta, bowing his white head; then, looking round triumphantly: "It was prodigious, but a prodigy, remember, vouched for by the chronicles of the Church. (Chronicles of the Church are much more to be trusted than any thing else, much more than Evangelists, who were not bishops, and therefore had no authority—we all know that.) No sooner, my friends, had the corpse of the lady of the Manzi family spoken, as I have said, than diligent search was made by those assembled in the church, when lo!—within the open vault the remains of the adorable San Frediano were discovered in excellent preservation. I need not say that, having died in the odor of sanctity, the most fragrant perfume filled the church, and penetrated even to the adjacent streets. Several sick persons were healed by merely inhaling it. One man, whose arm had been shot off at the shoulder-joint many years before, found his limb come again in an instant, by merely touching the blessed relic." The cavaliere paused to take breath. No one had spoken.—"Have you heard the miracle of the glorious San Frediano?" asked Trenta, a little timidly, raising his voice to its utmost pitch as he addressed Count Marescotti.
"No, I have not, cavaliere; but, if I had, it would not alter my opinion. I do not believe in mediaeval miracles." As he spoke, Count Marescotti turned round from the steps of a side-altar, whither he had wandered to look at a picture. "I did not hear one word you said, my dear cavaliere, but I am acquainted with the supposed miracles of San Frediano. They are entirely without evidence, and in no way shake my conclusions as to the utter worthlessness of such legends. In this I agree with the Protestants," he continued, "rather than with that inspired teacher, Savonarola. The Protestants, spite of so-called 'ecclesiastical authority,' persist in denying them. With the Protestants, I hold that the entire machinery of modern miracles is false and unprofitable. With the Apostles miraculous power ended."
"Marescotti!" ejaculated the poor cavaliere, aghast at the effect his appeal had produced, "for God's sake, don't, don't! before Enrica—and in a church, too!"
"I believe with Savonarola in other miracles," continued the count, in a louder tone, addressing himself directly to Enrica, on whom he gazed with a tender expression—he was far too much engrossed with her and with the subject to heed Trenta's feeble remonstrance—"I believe in the mystic essence of soul to soul—I believe in the reappearance of the disembodied spirit to its kindred affinity still on earth—still clothed with a fleshly garment. I believe in those magnetic influences that circle like an atmosphere about certain purified and special natures, binding them together in a closely-locked embrace, an embrace that neither time, distance, nor even death itself, can weaken or sever!"
He paused for an instant; a dark fire lit up his eyes, which were still bent on Enrica.
"All this I believe—life would be intolerable to me without such convictions. At the same time, I am ready to grant that all cannot accept my views. These are mysteries to be approached without prejudice—mysteries that must be received absolutely without prejudice of religion, country, or race; received as the aesthetic instinct within us teaches. Who," he added, and as he spoke he stood erect on the steps of the altar, his arms outstretched in the eagerness of argument, his grand face all aglow with enthusiasm—"who can decide? It is faith that convinces—faith that vivifies—faith that transforms—faith that links us to the hierarchy of angels! To believe—to act on our belief, even if that belief be false—that is true religion. A merciful Deity will accept our imperfect sacrifice. Are we not all believers in Christ? Away with creeds and churches, with formularies and doctrines, with painted walls and golden altars, with stoled priests, infallible popes, and temporal hierarchies! What are these vain distinctions, if we love God? Let the whole world unite to believe in the Redeemer. Then we shall all be brothers—you, I—all, brothers—joined within the holy circle of one universal family—of one universal worship!"
Count Marescotti ceased speaking, but his impassioned words still echoed through the empty aisles. His eyes had wandered from Enrica; they were now fixed on high. His countenance glowed with rapture. Wrapped in the visions his imagination had called forth, he descended from the altar, and slowly approached the silent group gathered beside the monumental stone.