mighty was
the distance. In the second minute it trembled through many changes,
growing into terraces and towers of wondrous altitude, so mighty was the
pace. In the third minute already, with our dreadful gallop, we were
entering its suburbs. Vast sarcophagi rose on every side, having towers and
turrets that, upon the limits of the central aisle, strode forward with
haughty intrusion, that ran back with mighty shadows into answering
recesses. Every sarcophagus showed many bas-reliefs--bas-reliefs of
battles--bas-reliefs of battle-fields; of battles from forgotten ages--of
battles from yesterday--of battle-fields that, long since, nature had
healed and reconciled to herself with the sweet oblivion of flowers--of
battle-fields that were yet angry and crimson with carnage. Where the
terraces ran, there did _we_ run; where the towers curved, there did _we_
curve. With the flight of swallows our horses swept round every angle. Like
rivers in flood, wheeling round headlands; like hurricanes that side
into the secrets of forests; faster than ever light unwove the mazes of
darkness, our flying equipage carried earthly passions--kindled warrior
instincts--amongst the dust that lay around us; dust oftentimes of our
noble fathers that had slept in God from Creci to Trafalgar. And now had we
reached the last sarcophagus, now were we abreast of the last bas-relief,
already had we recovered the arrow-like flight of the illimitable central
aisle, when coming up this aisle to meet us we beheld a female infant that
rode in a carriage as frail as flowers. The mists, which went before her,
hid the fawns that drew her, but could not hide the shells and tropic
flowers with which she played--but could not hide the lovely smiles by
which she uttered her trust in the mighty cathedral, and in the cherubim
that looked down upon her from the topmast shafts of its pillars. Face to
face she was meeting us; face to face she rode, as if danger there were
none. "Oh, baby!" I exclaimed, "shalt thou be the ransom for Waterloo? Must
we, that carry tidings of great joy to every people, be messengers of ruin
to thee?" In horror I rose at the thought; but then also, in horror at the
thought, rose one that was sculptured on the bas-relief--a dying trumpeter.
Solemnly from the field of battle he rose to his feet; and, unslinging
his stony trumpet, carried it, in his dying anguish, to his stony
lips--sounding once, and yet once again; proclamation that, in _thy