A mighty candelabrum which showed a beautiful and powerful figure of Wenceslas stood before the altar, and lit, by a dozen wax candles, the cuirass and helmet of the murdered saint, preserved in a curious case of rock crystal which rested on the altar cover of purple silk and scarlet fringing.
Above the altar hung a Flemish picture showing the murder of the Prince by the fierce Boleslav; the colours were as bright as the gems in the walls, and the faces had a lifelike look of distorted passion. A pink marble shell of holy water stood near the entrance, and the lieutenant, with the instinct of an ingrained creed, dipped in his fingers and crossed himself. Luc de Clapiers did not perform this rite, but passed to the altar rails and leant there thoughtfully, a figure in strong contrast to his background.
“M. d’Espagnac,” he said, in a low, composed voice, “I liked the way you spoke to-night. Forgive me—but I too have thought as you do—I also live for glory.”
At hearing these words the youth flushed with a nameless and inexpressible emotion; he came to the altar also and lowered his eyes to the mosaic pavement that sparkled in the candlelight. He had only been a year in the army and one campaign at the war; every detail of his life still had the intoxication of novelty, and these words, spoken by his captain amidst surroundings exotic as an Eastern fairy tale, fired his ardent imagination and caught his spirit up to regions of bewildering joy.
“You have everything in the world before you,” continued Luc de Clapiers, and his voice, though very soft, had a note of great inner strength. “If anyone should laugh or sneer because you desire to give your life to glory, you must only pity them. M. de Biron, for instance—those people cannot understand.” He moved his hand delicately to his breast and turned his deep hazel eyes earnestly on the youth. “You must not be discouraged. You are seeking for something that is in the world, something that other men have found—and won—in different ways, but by the light of the same spirit—always.”
M. d’Espagnac sighed, very gently; his whitened hair and pure face were of one paleness in the ghostly, dim, mingled light of coloured lamp and flickering candle.
“I want to achieve myself,” he said simply. “There is something within me which is great; therefore I feel very joyful. It is like a flame in my heart which warms all my blood; it is like wings folded to my feet which one day will open and carry me—above the earth.” He paused and added, “You see I am speaking like a child, but it is difficult to find a language for these thoughts.”
“It is impossible,” answered Luc de Clapiers under his breath; “the holiest things in the world are those that have never been expressed. The new philosophy is as far from them as the old bigotry, and Prince Wenceslas, who died here five hundred years ago, knew as much of it as we do who are so wise, so civilized—so bewildered, after all.”
The youth looked at him reverently; until to-day he had hardly noticed the silent young soldier, for Luc de Clapiers had nothing remarkable about his person or his manner.
“Monsieur, you think, then, that I shall achieve my ambitions?” Hitherto he had been indifferent to encouragement; now he felt eager for this man’s approval and confidence.