In a dim chapel of St. Peter's lay the Pope, robed in white, the
jewelled tiara upon his head, his white face calm and peaceful. Six
torches burned beside him; six nobles of the guard stood like statues
with drawn swords, three on his right hand and three on his left. That
was all. The crowd passed in single file before the great closed gates
of the Julian Chapel.
At night he was borne reverently by loving hands to the deep crypt
below. But at another time, at night also, the dead man was taken up
and driven towards the gate to be buried without the walls. Then a great
crowd assembled in the darkness and fell upon the little band and stoned
the coffin of him who never harmed any man, and screamed out curses and
blasphemies till all the city was astir with riot. That was the last
funeral hymn.
Old Rome is gone. The narrow streets are broad thoroughfares, the Jews'
quarter is a flat and dusty building lot, the fountain of Ponte Sisto is
swept away, one by one the mighty pines of Villa Ludovisi have fallen
under axe and saw, and a cheap, thinly inhabited quarter is built upon
the site of the enchanted garden.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25