Everywhere, some half-dozen of dusty open
carriages, filled with officers in uniform, passing through crowded
streets festooned with flowers, dressed out with banners--everywhere, the
one figure of a plain, rough Soldier-king, bowing stiffly and slowly from
time to time--everywhere, a surging, heaving, shouting crowd. Such is
the one subject of my picture-gallery.
I am in the Duomo of Florence. Around and about me there is a great
crowd. Every niche and cornice where foot can stand is occupied. A deep
gloom hangs around the darkened church, and from out the lofty vaulted
roof thousands of lamps hang glimmering like stars upon a moonless sky.
Ever and anon the organ peals forth triumphantly, and the clouds of
incense rise fitfully; and as the bell rings, and the host is raised on
high, you see above the bowed heads of the swaying crowd the figure of
the excommunicated King, kneeling on the altar-steps. Then, when the
service is over, and the royal procession passes down the nave, through
the double line of soldiers, who keep the passage clear, I am carried
onwards to the front of the grand cathedral, which for centuries has
stood bare and unfinished, and which is to date its completion from the
time when the city of Dante and Michael Angelo is to date her freedom,
too long delayed.
The next scene present to my memory is a dark gloomy night.
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