Veil
"The seal is set."
On the day fixed for the departure of Sir Henry Delmé and his brother, they together visited once more the sumptuous pile of St. Peter's, and heard the voices of the practised choristers swell through the mighty dome, as the impressive service of the Catholic Church was performed by the Pope and his conclave.
The morning dawn had seen George, as was his daily custom in Rome, kneeling beside the grave of Acmé, and breathing a prayer for their blissful reunion in heaven.
As the widower staggered from that spot, the thought crossed him, and bitterly poignant was that thought, that now might he bid a second earthly farewell, to what had been his pride, and household solace.
Now, indeed, "was the last link broken." Each hour--each traversed league--was to bear him away from even the remains of his heart's treasure.
Their bones must moulder in a different soil.
It was Sir Henry's choice that they should on that day visit Saint Peter's; and well might the travellers leave Rome with so unequalled an object fresh in the mind's eye.
Whether we gaze on its exterior of faultless proportions--or on the internal arrangement, where perfect symmetry reigns;--whether we consider the glowing canvas--or the inspired marble,--or the rich mosaics;--whether with the enthusiasm of the devotee, we bend before those gorgeous shrines; or with the comparative apathy of a cosmopolite, reflect on the historical recollections with which that edifice--the focus of the rays of Catholicism--teems and must teem forever;--we must in truth acknowledge, that there alone is the one matchless temple, in strict and perfect harmony with Imperial Rome.
Gazing there--or recalling in after years its unclouded majesty--the delighted pilgrim knows neither shade of disappointment--nor doth he harbour one thought of decay.