"Yes," repeated Richard, while Godfrey and Renard cleared a way to the very centre of the square, right under the rude pulpit set for the occasion. There was a high stone cross standing in front of the platform, and Richard seated his burden on one of its long arms. "Now, my little lord," cried he, "you shall be under the Pope's own eye, and your mother shall sit on the coping below and watch you."
"You are a good man!" declared the child, impulsively, stretching out his little fat arms.
"Ah!" replied Richard, half wistfully, as his glance lit on Louis, who had struggled to the front, "would that all might say likewise!"
Richard looked about. The ground rose a little around the pulpit; he could see a great way,—faces as far as the eye could reach, velvet caps and bare heads, women's bright veils and monkish cowls, silver-plated helmets of great lords, iron casques of men-at-arms,—who might number them? Pennoned lances tossed above the multitude, banners from every roof and dark street whipped the keen wind. Each window opening on the wide square was crowded with faces.
The Norman did not see a certain, dark-visaged hunchback, who strove to thrust himself through the throng to a station beside him. For when Godfrey's sharp eyes and frown fell on the rascal, he vanished instantly in the press. But Longsword waited, while men climbed the trees about and perched like birds on the branches, and still the multitude pressed thicker and thicker; more helmets, more lances, more bright veils and brilliant scarfs. Would the people come forever? Yet all was wondrously silent; no clamor, no rude pressure; each took post and waited, and listened to the beating of his own heart.
"The Pope is in the cathedral. He is praying for the special presence of the Holy Ghost," went the low whisper from lip to lip. And the multitude stood thus a long time, many with heads bowed in prayer. The chill wind began to die away as the sun mounted. Richard could see rifts in the heavy cloud banks. The shadow over the arena lifted little by little. Why was it that every breath seemed alive with spirits unseen? that the sigh of the flagging wind seemed the rustle of angels' wings? that he, and all others, half expected to see bright-robed hosts and a snow-white dove descending from the dark cathedral tower? More waiting; little Bernard began to stir on his hard seat. He was weary looking at the crowd. His mother touched him. "Be quiet, dear child, bow your head, and say your 'Our Father'; the Holy Spirit is very near to us just now."
At last—slowly the great central portal of the cathedral opened. They could hear the low, sweet strains of the processional streaming out from the long nave; the doors swung wider; and forth in slow procession came priests and prelates in snow-white linen, two by two, the bishops crowned with white mitres, and around them floated a pale haze as the faint breeze bore onward the smoke from a score of censers swinging in the acolytes' hands, as they marched beside. But before all, in a cope where princely gems were blazing, marched the grave and stately Adhemar of Monteil, Lord Bishop of Puy, and in his hands, held on high, a great crucifix of gold and ivory. And as the white-robed company advanced the multitude could hear them singing the noble sequence of St. Notker:—
"The grace of the Holy Ghost be present with us,
And make our hearts a dwelling-place to itself;
And expel from them all spiritual wickedness!"
While the procession advanced, the people gave way to right and left before it; and a great swaying and murmur began to run through them, waxing more and more when, at the end, the clear voices sang:—
"Thyself, by bestowing on the apostles of Christ a gift immortal and unheard of from all ages,
Hast made this day glorious."