She moved as she spoke to the organ, and the gorgeous tones of golden bronze rolled forth in sunset clouds of heavenly harmony, with her seraph voice singing sweet among them. Pass, hour of noble raptures, hour of the spirit, hour of celestial love and hope and joy, pass, fitting prelude for his coming—the valiant soul and tender, now blest among the blessed, whose disenchanted dust lies in the holy soil of Florence, and lends one hallowed memory more to the land of Dante’s grave!
It was like a sacred dream in which he came—the mighty, the well-beloved, the lion-hearted Theodore; he of the domed brow, the Socratic features, resolute and tender, and stern at times with the long battle he waged for Christian liberty; he of the beautiful and dove-like eyes whose clear sweetness the roaring hatred of his foes could never stain or change. It was like a sacred dream in which they heard the noble language of his charge inspiring them to lives of holiest and highest humanhood, and then while the dream deepened into an interval of unutterable calm, and a stiller glory seemed to swim, a more celestial fragrance seemed to flow, upon the quiet of the room, the pledges of the nuptials were spoken, and his voice arose in tender and fervent supplication to the Heavenly Father of the world—Father and Mother, too—Father of Love and Freedom and all that makes the world more fair—Lover of lovers, and Lover of the world He made—that the eternal spring-time of His Presence might rest upon their wedded lives, greenness and strength and beauty to them forevermore.
It was still a sacred dream, when he had gone. But the very air seemed to tremble with an ecstasy of painful happiness, and Muriel, pale with a joy which was insupportable, because voiceless, glided to the organ.
Softly again upon the glory of the air, drifted the molten bronze of the rich music and her clear soprano, sweet and low, arose and blended with the heavenly anthem. Sweet and low as the mother’s cradle hymn, and tender as the remembered songs of childhood, it floated on above the mellow murmur of the instrumental flow; and rising like a thrilling gush of perfume into more celestial melody, it rose again in rapturous ascension, intermingled with the surging and dilating swell of the organ-tones, and rang in pealing hallelujahs, draining the soul of every earthly thought and feeling, and lifting it pale and throbbing on the burning wings of seraphs into the light and odor of the Life Divine. Then sinking slowly, voice and music failed upon the palpitating air, failed from the spirits throbbing with the blended sweetness, and the room was still.
She rose from the organ with her face inspired, and turned to be folded in the arms of Harrington.
“Ah, Muriel,” he fervently murmured, “your songs are more than ‘the benediction that follows after prayer!’”
She did not answer, but stood silently in his embrace, with her face bent upon his breast. Lifting it to his at length, she looked upon him with glowing eyes.
“We are married,” she said. “Do you realize it?”
“Hardly,” he replied. “But it is true. We are one. One in love for liberty.”
“One in love for liberty,” she echoed. “One in love for all mankind.”