rms extended. One holds a massive sceptre, the
other the silver keys of the city of Lucca.

All waits. The bride, glorious in her garment of needle-work, waits.
The bridegroom waits. The sacramental banquet is spread; the guests
are bidden. All waits the moment when the multitude, already buzzing
without at the western entrance, shall spread themselves over
the mosaic floor, and throng each chapel, altar, gallery, and
transept--when anthems of praise shall peal from the double doors of
the painted organ, and holy rites give a mystic language to the sacred
symbols around.

Meanwhile the procession flashes from street to street. Banners
flutter in the hot mid-day air, tall crucifixes and golden crosses
reach to the upper stories. In the pauses the low hum of the chanted
canticles is caught up here and there along the line--now the
monks--then the canons with a nasal twang--then the laity.

There are the judges, twelve in number, robed in black, scarlet,
and ermine, their broad crimson sashes sweeping the pavement. The
_gonfaloniere_--that ancient title of republican freedom still
remaining--walks behind, attired in antique robes. Next appear the
municipality--wealthy, oily-faced citizens, at this moment much
overcome by the heat. Following these are the Lucchese nobles, walking
two-and-two, in a precedence not prescribed by length of pedigree, but
of age. Next comes the prefect of the city; at his side the general in
command of the garrison of Lucca, escorted by a brilliant staff. Each
bears a tall lighted torch.

The law and the army are closely followed by the church. All are
there, two-and-two--from the youngest deacon to the oldest canon--in
his robe of purple silk edged with gold--wearing a white mitre. The
church is generally corpulent; these dignitaries are no exception.

Amid a cloud of incense walks the archbishop--a tall, stately man,
in the prime of life--under a canopy of crimson silk resting on gold
staves, borne over him by four canons habited in purple. He moves
along, a perfect mass of brocade, lace, and gold--literally aflame
in the sunshine. His mitred head is bent downward; his eyes are half
closed; his lips move. In his hands--which are raised almost level
with his face, and reverently covered by his vestments--he bears a
gemmed vessel containing the Host, to be laid by-and-by on the
altar of the Holy Countenance. All the church-bells are now ringing
furiously. Cannons fire, and military bands dr