ost rare music that the world had ever heard in that day.

Only those who have listened to a beautiful voice singing in the Lateran
towards evening can understand that, in spite of the grievous
disfigurements of the barocco age, and the exaggerated modern
decorations of the nineteenth century, the 'Mother of all Churches,' as
the Basilica is called, can still seem the most deeply and truly
hallowed place of worship in Christendom. There is a mystery in it at
the sunset hour which is felt by all men, though none can explain it;
the light glows and fades there as nowhere else, the shadows have a
sweet solemnity of their own, and consummate art, or supreme
good-fortune, has made the vast nave and colonnaded aisles responsive to
the softest notes the human voice can breathe. First the full organ
blares out triumphantly alone, and by and by the chorus, borne up by the
master instrument, swells from a hundred throats in such tremendous
harmonies that the marble pavement seems alive and thrilling under a
man's feet; yet the words are not lost in a clashing din of senseless
noise, for every one of them is complete and reaches the astonished ear
unbroken and distinct. Then, in an instant, the enormous gale of sound
is hushed and leaves no echo, and one voice alone is singing a low
melody, divinely spiritual as an angel's prayer. It rises presently,
full and strong, but every syllable rings out clear and perfect, even to
the outer doors; it sinks to all but a whisper, yet each delicate
articulation floats unbroken to the remotest corner of the outer aisle,
till he who listens feels the word vibrating in his heart rather than in
his outward ears.

Ortensia felt more than that, for the music was that of the man she
loved so well, and the single voice was his too, and the prayer it sang
was for her, and was in her heart while she listened; and, moreover,
Alessandro Stradella was not matched in voice or genius by any singer of
his age. It would be as hopeless to attempt a description of his singing
on that day as to analyse the feelings that thrilled Ortensia. There are
delights that must be felt to be believed, and only three are noble,
for they have their sources in true love, and in supreme art, and in
honourable fight for wife and child and country. Ortensia felt the first
two of these together; but he who dies, not having known even one of
them, had better not have lived at all.

As afternoon turned to evening, the straight go