It was evening when the travellers reached Rome. They had accomplished the journey in the time promised by Manasseh, and now the query was raised, could their enemy, by any possibility, have outstripped them?

Upon the coachman's inquiring to what hotel he should take his passengers, Gabriel Zimandy drew out his memorandum-book and read the name of a house recommended to him by his landlord at Vienna. European innkeepers, be it observed, join together in a sort of fraternity for mutual aid in a business way, passing their guests along from city to city and from hand to hand, sometimes even providing them with letters of introduction.

The cards of the hotel in question bore the important announcement, "German is spoken here;" and this was an advantage not to be despised.

"You will come with us, won't you?" said the advocate, turning with a courteous bow to Manasseh.

"Where German is spoken? No, I thank you. If I announce myself as a Hungarian, they will kiss my hand and then charge the kiss on the bill; if I say I am a German, I shall get a drubbing and be charged for that, too. I prefer to hunt up a modest little inn where, when I register from Transylvania, the good people will think it is somewhere in America, perhaps in the neighbourhood of Pennsylvania. The Yankees, you know, are highly respected in Italy."

"I regret exceedingly—" began the advocate. "Among so many strangers it would have been very pleasant to have——"

"At least one enemy within call," interrupted the young man, with a smile. "Well, you see, I am likely to be in Rome some time; so I shall look up a quiet room for myself near the Colosseum, where the sun shines and I can carry out certain plans of my own."

The carriage turned into a brilliantly lighted street and passed a stately palace before which a richly sculptured fountain was sending its streams of sparkling water into the air.

"The Palazzo Cagliari," remarked Manasseh, but without any significant emphasis.

A natural impulse of curiosity moved Blanka to turn and look at the ancestral mansion of her husband's family. A moment later Manasseh signalled the driver to stop, and alighted from the carriage after shaking hands with his fellow travellers. Gabriel Zimandy said they should be sure to meet again soon; Madam Dormandy hoped they might all go sightseeing together in a few days; but Blanka said nothing as she bowed her farewell.

Reaching their hotel, our three travellers were greeted by the landlord with unmistakable tokens of surprise.

"And have your excellencies met with no mishap on the way?" he took early occasion to inquire.

"Certainly not. Why?"

"Your coming was announced in advance by our Vienna agent, and accordingly we reserved rooms for you. But at the same time another guest was also announced, a gentleman of high station from Hungary; and this afternoon word came that this gentleman and all his party had been captured by bandits in the ravine at the foot of Monte Rosso, and carried off into the mountains, where they will have to stay until their ransom is forthcoming. We feared your excellencies were of the party."

"No," said Gabriel; "we came by way of Orvieto."

"Lucky for you!" exclaimed the landlord.

"What is the name of the gentleman you refer to?" asked the princess, in a tone that betrayed the keenness of her interest.

"It's a queer name," answered the landlord, "and I can't remember it. But I'll find it for you in my letters of advice and send it up to your room."

Blanka had hardly laid aside her wraps when a waiter knocked at her door and presented a card on a silver salver. "Conte Benjamino de Vajdar" was the name she read in the landlord's handwriting.

On the following morning, Blanka sent for the hotel-keeper and desired him to procure for herself and her two companions admission tickets to all the sacred ceremonies of the coming week. The worthy man fairly gasped at the coolness of this request. Tickets to the Sistine Chapel, to the TenebrÆ, to the Benediction, and to the Glorification—and for three persons? Why, money couldn't buy them at that late hour, he declared. Admission tickets to paradise would be more easily obtainable. At the very utmost, places might still be procured on some balcony overlooking the Piazza di San Pietro, but only at extremely high prices. Yet the view from such a position would be a fine one; and mine host, without waiting to listen to any objections, hastened away to secure tickets, if they were still to be had.

The princess made her lament to Gabriel Zimandy over her poor success in obtaining what she so ardently desired, and that gentleman sought to console her with the assurance that it was highly venturesome for ladies to trust themselves in the crowd that always attended the church ceremonies of Holy Week, and that she could read all about them much more comfortably in the newspapers. Blanka, however, took so much to heart the disappointment of her pious wishes, and came so near the point of tear-letting, that the advocate felt obliged to sally forth in person to see what he could do to console her. In less than an hour he was back again, breathless and exultant. He ran up-stairs with the agility of a much younger and less corpulent man, and hastened to the princess's room, regardless of the fact that she was at the moment under her hair-dresser's hands.

"Victory!" he cried, panting for breath. "The impossible is achieved, and here are tickets for all three of us—to everything—to the TenebrÆ, the washing of feet, the Last Supper, the Resurrection, the relics, the Benediction—"

"But how did you get them?" interrupted the ladies, overcome with curiosity. Madam Dormandy had come hurrying out of her room at the first sound of his voice, and she and the princess now proceeded to pelt their victorious envoy with a volley of questions.

"Well, you see," replied the lawyer, gradually recovering his breath, "it is a curious story. As I was tearing across the Corso, intent on my errand, I felt some one catch me by the coat-tail and heard a voice call to me in Hungarian, 'Haste makes waste!' I wheeled about, and there stood our Arian friend."

"Manasseh Adorjan?"

"Yes. He asked me if we had our affairs all in order, and I told him, by no means. I complained to him of our ill luck in securing tickets to the sacred ceremonies, and that it seemed impossible to get even anywhere near the Vatican. 'Well,' said he, with that confoundedly serious expression of his that you don't know whether to take as a sign of jest or earnest, 'let me see if I can't make it possible for you.' 'But,' said I, 'you don't imagine that you, a fallen statesman and an Arian heretic, can gain what is denied to Spanish princesses of the strictest orthodoxy?' 'You shall soon see,' he answered, and proceeded to lead me through one crooked street after another, until we found ourselves in front of a palace, at whose door a military watch was posted. He handed his card to the doorkeeper, and presently we were ushered into an anteroom, where Adorjan left me while he himself went with a man who seemed to be a private secretary, or something of the sort, into the next room. It wasn't long before he came out again and put three cards into my hand. 'There they are,' said he. 'Why, you are a regular magician!' I couldn't but exclaim. 'Oh, no,' he replied, 'I am no Cagliostro; the explanation is simple enough. This is the French embassy, and Monsieur Rossi is an old friend of mine. I have visited his family often. So when I asked him for tickets to all the ceremonies of Holy Week for two Hungarian ladies and their escort, he gave them to me at once. But now you must look sharp, for cards enough have been given out to fill the Sistine Chapel six times over, and there will be a scramble to get in.'"

The princess was as pleased as a child. Her dearest wish was gratified; but, singularly enough, she owed this gratification to the very man whom she felt the necessity of avoiding and forgetting. It was, however, to the mysterious charm of the approaching ceremonies that she looked for an effective means of diverting her thoughts from forbidden channels. Yet the fact remained that he himself had opened the way for her to this earnestly desired distraction, and to Blanka it seemed as if his influence over her was only increased and strengthened by his absence.

"What return, pray, did you make for all this kindness?" she asked.

"A very ungracious one, I fear," replied Gabriel. "After receiving these tickets, which are worth many times their weight in gold, I told our benefactor that I feared they would profit us little, unless he procured one for himself, also, and acted as our guide."

"You asked him to escort us?" exclaimed the princess, consternation in her tone.

"I know it was a strange request," admitted the advocate, "to ask a heretic to witness the Passion, and the Resurrection, and the Glorification. It is like burning incense before his Satanic Majesty. Naturally enough, he refused at first point-blank, alleging that he had no right to thrust himself as attendant on two ladies without their invitation. 'Well, then,' said I, 'don't go as the ladies' escort, but just show me, your fellow countryman, the way about, else I shall certainly get lost, and find myself in the Catacombs instead of the Vatican.' Finally, I forced him to yield, and so he is to accompany us."

In the afternoon of the same day Manasseh Adorjan called on the princess, and brought her a piece of good news of the utmost importance. Her trunks, and those of her friends, had arrived safely and promptly, and were at the custom-house. She had concluded that they had fallen into the bandits' hands, but it seemed that it was not the diligence, after all, that the robbers had waylaid; it was a post-carriage engaged by one of the travellers in the hope of reaching Rome a few hours earlier than the public conveyance. This one traveller only had been carried off into the mountains by the bandits, who had despatched a letter from their captive to Rome, addressed to Prince Cagliari, and presumably relating to the ransom. But as the prince was at present in Vienna, and postal communication between the two cities was at that time slow and uncertain, the ransom stood a good chance of being considerably delayed. This was a hint to the princess to make the most of the interim, and plead her cause at the Vatican, before her enemy could put in an appearance and damage her case. Manasseh, however, betrayed no sign of possessing any knowledge of the pending divorce suit, but continued to bear himself with the courteous reserve of a new acquaintance. Two things he sought thenceforth to avoid,—paying court to the beautiful young princess, and speaking lightly of things held sacred by her.

Complying with the expressed wish of the two ladies, in the evening he made with them the round of the principal churches, which now all wore gala attire. He took his seat on the box by the coachman's side, and pointed out, in passing, the buildings and scenes of special interest. In one of the churches he showed the ladies facsimiles of the four nails used in the Crucifixion; of the originals, one, he explained, was preserved in St. Peter's, and another had been used to make the circle of the Iron Crown. He even bought as a souvenir one of these facsimiles, which a Cistercian monk was offering for sale. He obtained also consecrated palm-branches with gilded leaves, and bribed the custodian of the three sacred orange-trees planted by the Apostles to give his party each a tiny leaflet. He schooled his face to betray no incredulity when the keepers of the various holy relics recited their virtues, and related the miracles wrought by them. And when Blanka knelt in prayer before a statue of the Madonna, he withdrew respectfully to a distance. It was an earnest petition she offered before the blessed Virgin, a prayer for rescue from her enemies, and for strength to resist every temptation. And she knew not that her rescuer and her tempter were one and the same person, and that he stood there behind her at that very moment.

Of a highly impressionable temperament, and fresh from her convent life, the princess was so moved by the sacred emblems about her, and by their holy associations, that she could not conceive of any one's viewing these objects with less of awe and reverence than herself. And when her conductor recounted the legend of the sacred lance in the chapel of St. Veronica,—how the Roman lictor Longinus had pierced the Saviour's side with this lance, and been himself struck blind the same instant, but had immediately recovered his sight when he rubbed his eyes with the hand on which four drops of the Redeemer's blood had fallen,—Blanka could not but ask herself whether another such miracle might not be wrought, and another blind man be restored to sight. She dreamed of this miracle that night, and made a vow to the Virgin that in case of her deliverance from her present difficulties, she would show her gratitude by presenting the Madonna with a jewel more precious than any that adorned her crown: she would offer this young man himself, who now refused to worship at her shrine. The princess felt herself rich enough to buy this jewel for her offering. Her heart held inexhaustible treasures, of which no man as yet could claim any share. She ceased to fear him against whom she had hitherto felt obliged to be on her guard; so much strength had she gained from the sacred relics that she now thought herself strong enough to make conquests of her own.

In the morning Manasseh came early to escort the ladies and Gabriel Zimandy to the Sistine Chapel. Upon gaining the Piazza di San Pietro they found a vast throng already assembled, through which the young man was forced to pilot his charges. Blanka was compelled to cling fast to his arm, while Madam Dormandy took the advocate's, and so they made the best of their way forward. As if by instinct, Manasseh knew where a courteous request would open a path before them, where to resort to more energetic measures, and where a couple of lire would prove most effectual. At length he was successful in gaining the very best position in the chapel, and here, unfolding a camp-stool which he had brought with him under his overcoat, he offered Blanka a seat, whence she could view the ceremonies in comfort, and without annoyance from the pushing and crowding multitude.

Alas, poor Blanka! She only learned later from her father confessor what a sin she had committed in thus yielding to the weakness of the flesh, instead of standing through all the weary hours of that morning. A good Christian should not think of bodily comfort while his Saviour hangs bleeding on the cross. But she did not know this at the time, and therefore her escort's kind attention was most grateful to her.

The TenebrÆ is one of the most impressive of all the ceremonies of Holy Week in Rome. The Sistine Chapel is draped entirely in black, and only the soft rays of thirteen wax candles serve to lessen the darkness, out of whose depths, as out of the blackness of the tomb, sounds the antiphony of mourning and lamentation. The human forms moving to and fro before the cross are hardly distinguishable, but have the appearance of vague shadows. Then the candles are, one by one, extinguished, until only a single taper is left burning on the altar—that is Jesus. And in this darkness, symbolic of grief and mourning, an invisible choir sings the Miserere, Allegri's world-renowned composition, whose mystic notes bring so vividly before us that last scene on Golgotha,—the agony of the dying Saviour, the taunts of the lictors, the wailing of the holy women, the shrieks of the dead whose graves are opened, and who cry aloud for mercy, and finally the rending of the Temple curtain, and the chorus of angels in heaven. All this affects even the most hardened of skeptics with a power that cannot be withstood. For the time being the imagination is mistress of the reason.

As the crowd poured out of the chapel after the ceremony was over, Blanka shot a glance of scrutiny from beneath her veil at the young man by her side. His face wore its wonted look of seriousness, the utter opposite of careless indifference, but at the same time wholly unlike the devout rapture of a believer. In fact, his expression betrayed but too clearly that his thoughts were little occupied with what he had just witnessed.

"Have you heard the Miserere many times before?" asked Blanka.

"Twice only,—once in the Sistine Chapel, and again in St. Stephen's at Vienna."

"But I thought its production was forbidden elsewhere than in Rome," said the princess.

"Formerly that was the case," replied Manasseh, "the publication of Allegri's work being strictly prohibited; but after Mozart had heard it once and written it down from memory, its reproduction could not be prevented. So I had a chance to hear it in Vienna, where, however, it was but ill received, some of the audience even being moved to laughter."

"For what reason, pray?"

"Oh, not from any frivolity or irreverence, but because the music, which sounds so grandly impressive here in the Sistine Chapel, strikes one as a mere confusion of discordant notes amid other surroundings."

On the following day came the washing of the Apostles' feet. Chosen priests from thirteen nations of the earth gathered in the Pauline Chapel to receive this humble service at the hands of the Pope himself. The thirteenth of these chosen ones represented the angel that is said to have appeared with the appointed twelve in St. Gregory's time. Then followed the Last Supper, at which also the holy father ministered to the Apostles in person.

The next day was Saturday, and Gabriel Zimandy declared himself surfeited with holy ceremonies. Madam Dormandy agreed with him and began to complain of a fearful headache. Then the two united in maintaining that the princess looked utterly worn out and in need of rest. But Manasseh, who, by appointment, just then came upon the scene to offer his escort for the day, laughed them all three to shame.

"That is always the way," said he; "people tire themselves out so before Saturday that on that day five-sixths of the crowd stay at home to save up their strength for Easter, and thus miss one of the most impressive spectacles of the week,—the adoration of the true cross."

Poor Gabriel was now given no rest: he was forced to accompany the others once more to the Sistine Chapel, though he declared himself already quite stiff and sore with so much standing.

The chapel was at its best; the black hangings had been removed, the light from the windows was softened, candles burned on the altar, and, as Manasseh had predicted, so many of the sightseers had stayed at home that ample room was left for those who were present. The general multitude could find little pleasure in the ceremony of the day,—the worship of a piece of wood about three yards in length, and unadorned with gold or silver. The Pope and the cardinals, gowned with no pretence to magnificence or pomp, knelt before the relic as it lay on the altar. It was but a fragment of the original cross, broken in the strife that attended its rescue. This piece is said to have been saved and carried off by an emperor, making his way barefoot from Jerusalem to Alexandria, where another emperor concealed the precious relic in a statue, and finally the Templars bore it in triumph through pagan hordes from Constantinople to Rome. And now, when the head of the Church, the pastor of a flock of two hundred million human beings, the keeper of the keys of heaven, approaches this bit of wood, he strips himself of his splendid robes, removes the crown from his head, the shoes from his feet, and goes, simply clad and barefoot, with humble mien, to kneel and kiss the sacred emblem. The cardinals follow his example, and meanwhile the choir sings Palestrina's famous composition, the "Mass of Pope Marcellinus," a wonderful piece that must have been first sung to the composer by the angels themselves.

When the last notes of the music had died away, the bells of St. Peter's began to ring, the hangings before the windows were drawn aside, and Michael Angelo's marvellous frescoes were fully revealed to the admiring gaze of all present. The swords and halberds of the guards were once more raised erect, and the choir, the prelates, and the pilgrims joined in a common "Hallelujah!"

"Hallelujah!" cried Gabriel Zimandy also, rejoicing that the ceremony was finally ended. "Never before in all my life have I been so completely tired out."

On his return to the hotel, he stoutly protested against attending any more Church functions, and argued at length the inadvisability of the ladies exposing themselves to the heat and fatigue of the Easter service. Finally, and most important of all, he added that he had been granted an audience with the Pope and must prepare his address, which was to be in Latin.

"We are infinitely indebted to you, friend Manasseh," he concluded, "for all your kindness; but you see for yourself how the case stands with me."

"Yes, yes, I understand," replied the young man. "The audience is fixed for day after to-morrow, and of course you wish to prepare for it. Let me suggest, too, that you pay the French ambassador, to whose house I took you the other day, the courtesy of a call; he knows a little Latin, although, to be sure, it can't equal your own."

This suggestion, casual though it was meant to appear, made it evident to the advocate that he owed the early granting of his request to the powerful influence of the French minister. And Manasseh, on his part, was not slow to perceive that the advocate's chief concern was lest his fair client, at this critical time, should be seen in public in the company of a strange young man. It might hurt her case irremediably.

With a full understanding of the situation, Manasseh took leave of the princess, who indeed was looking very down-hearted at the prospect of missing what she had so ardently desired. But she was schooled to the denial of her own pleasure, and so quietly shook hands with her caller—then went to the window to watch his retreating form.