t it might be
perfected--as a religious art. Fool that I was! How can life or religion
be an art when the merest accident can dissolve the entire fabric at a
blow? No art can exist in the presence of an impalpable mystery, of an
unknown, inappeasable, implacable Force."

"No," said the Princess; "art is not enough!--morality, virtue, love
even, is not enough. None of these can pierce the veil. Nothing profits,
save the Divine Humanity, which, through the mystery of Sacrifice, has
entered the unseen. You know, Ferdinand," and she looked up through her
tears with a sad smile, "in your art there was always in old times a
mystery."

She rose as she said this, and stood more lovely than ever in her grief
and in her faith; and the Prince moved a step forward, and put his hand
upon the breast of the child. As they stood, looking each other full in
the eyes, in the notorious beauty of their order and of their race, it
might have seemed to a sanguine fancy that, over the piteous victim of
earth's failure, art and religion for the moment were at one.

II.

THE pleasure Palace was deserted. Mark was buried in a shadowy graveyard
behind the old manor-house, where was a ruined chapel that had been a
canonry. The Princess Isoline gave up her house, and dissolved her
family. They were scattered to their several homes. She said that her
place was by her brother's side. It would seem that none were sorry for
some excuse. The Prince could no longer endure the place; he said that
he had neglected his princely cities, and must visit them for a time.
The Signorina was inconsolable, but her singing improved day by day.
The Maestro began to have hopes of her. He wrote to Vienna concerning an
engagement for her at the Imperial Theatre there, without even
consulting the Prince, who for the moment was disgusted with the very
name of art. Old Carricchio said that the northern sunshine was more
intolerable than ever, and that he should return to Italy, but would
take Vienna in his way. It might be supposed that this old man would
have been much distressed, but, if this were the case, he concealed his
feelings with his usual humorous eccentricity. He spent most of his time
listening to Tina's singing. Even the Maestro and the pages seemed to
miss Mark more.

In the general disorganisation and confusion the Princess even was not
entirely unaffected. She was continually speaking of Mark, whose
singular personality had struck her fancy,