“There is no one in the avenue,” Elena said. “But the archways will be cooler.”
Tacita chose the deserted avenue, and walked timidly, almost without raising her eyes, till the second bridge was passed, and the Basilica rose before her, standing out from a mass of dark rock that almost touched the tribune.
Nine steps of gray stone led up to the white balustrade. Within, at either side was a square of turf, thick and fine, separated and surrounded by a path of yellow gravel, sparkling with little garnets. Three white steps above led to the double door, now wide open. There were inscriptions on the fronts of the steps. The upper one bore in Latin that most perfect of all acts of thanksgiving, We give thee thanks for thy great glory. The vestibule was one third the width of the Basilica, two narrow side doors, unseen from the front, having vestibules of the same size. This was entirely unadorned, except by the two valves of the carved door of cedar and olive-wood shut back against the wall, and the shining folds of a white linen curtain shutting an inner arch of the same size.
Lifting the linen band that drew these folds aside, Tacita was confronted by another curtain, a purple brocade of silk and wool, heavily fringed.
She dropped the linen behind her, and stood cloistered between the two for a moment; then, lifting a purple fold, stood before a screen that seemed woven of sunshine. A gold-colored silk brocade with a bullion fringe that quivered with light closed the inner edge of the arch.
Two contrary impulses held a momentary soft and delightful conflict in her mind: an impatient desire to see what was beyond that veil, and a restraining desire to let imagination sketch one swift picture of what was so delicately guarded.
Then, holding her breath, she slipped past the scintillating fringes and stood in the nave.
Flooded with the morning sunshine, the place was as brilliant as a rainbow. Even the white marble footing of the walls, and the two lines of white marble columns, overhung with lilies instead of acanthus leaves, caught a sunny glow from that illumination. The walls, frescoed with landscapes of every clime, showed all the rich hues of nature. The blue ceiling sparkled with flecks of gold, there were golden texts on the white marble of the lower walls that condensed the whole story of Judaism and Christianity. On the pedestals of the ten lower columns were inscribed the Ten Commandments. The pavement of polished green porphyry reflected softly all this wealth of coloring, and as it approached the tribune was tinted like still waters at sunset. For the Basilica of San Salvador was simply the throne-room of its Divine King; and the throne was in the tribune.
A deep alcove rising to the roof was lined with a purple curtain like that of the portal; and raised against it, nine steps from the pavement, was a throne made of acacia wood covered with plates of wrought gold. From the arch above, where the purple drapery was gathered under the white outspread wings of a dove, suspended by golden chains so fine as to be almost invisible, hung a jeweled diadem that quivered with prismatic hues. The footstool before the throne was a block of alabaster; and on its front was inscribed in golden letters:
Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.