The procession wound slowly to its place in the choir, and the organ broke into the great, swelling chords of Gounod’s mass, Mors et Vita. The music, inspired by the sublime grandeur of the sanctuary where it had partly been composed, proclaimed an unshakable faith in the majesty and power of the Almighty, whose protecting arm stands between His children and harm. Gradually the tense look of alarm on the faces of the congregation changed to the serenity of souls in the presence of God.
The organ’s voice subsided to a breath, wafted in and out among the incense-filled recesses of the cathedral like the rustling of angels’ wings, and the deep-toned peal of the great cathedral bell rang through the tense stillness. All at once a shaft of pure radiance shot into the center of the apse from the Angel’s Spire. Straight as a dart it descended until it found the jeweled arms of the cross. Here it rested, throwing out myriad rays of effulgence, as if through them the Spirit of the Founder of their faith was renewing His promises of salvation to His flock.
A breathless hush rested on the congregation until, in an ecstasy of triumph, the organ burst once more into a pæan of praise. The procession receded into the remote spaces of the cathedral, and the worshippers passed out into the sunlit square. As they walked by the statue of Joan of Arc, who sits on her charger before the cathedral, many paused and spoke in low, reverent tones of the sacrifice she had made for France, and wondered if the same spirit of loyalty would spring into life if the land of their adoration stood in need of defense.
Through the great western rose window of the cathedral the sun was casting quivering masses of rubies, topazes, emeralds, sapphires and amethysts to the floor below, where they lay in gorgeous profusion, melting one into the other in extravagant richness of beauty.
An old man stood in contemplation of the splendor of that mighty work of the ages which for a century and a half had been the especial care of his forefathers, and to which end, with reverent preparation, each succeeding generation of his family had been trained. To the old vitrier the windows in the sacred structure were not only a holy trust, but a prized heritage, each separate particle to be watched and studied, as a mother guards its offspring from possible injury, and passed on to posterity in as perfect a condition as it was received.
So deep was his absorption in the magnificence of the spectacle before him that he did not notice the approaching step of the archbishop. The ecclesiastic laid his hand on Monneuze’s shoulder.
“Exquisite, is it not, mon vieux?” he asked in his resonant voice. “I have never seen the colors more superb than they are this afternoon.”
The old glass-maker started, and turned toward him. The expression of ecstatic wonder still lingered on his lined face, from which, behind his heavy glasses, peered eyes round and childlike in their unquestioning trust.
“The beauty of it passes belief, Monseigneur,” he murmured fervently. “Oh, that I knew the art of reproducing those marvelous colors! It is the sorrow of my life that, try as I may, I can never duplicate the depth, the richness—” he shook his head dejectedly, and fixed his eyes once more on the flaming window.
“Ah, Jean,” answered the archbishop a little sadly. “So it is with all of us; no matter how hard we strive, we never reach the goal to which we are pressing. Our attainments are ever a disappointment to us. We can only labor on, and live in the hope that on the Last Day, when we see our endeavors through the eyes of the Blessed Redeemer, we may find that His estimate of them, graded on the knowledge of our limitations, will be higher than ours. It may be that our efforts and the sincerity of our motives will be judged instead of the results we were able to achieve. We must remember that no man can do bigger things than his capacity allows.”