ntifical
robes, surrounded by the prelates of his court. But the costume of this
Head of the Church became him as little as it had done his predecessor,
Octavian, and his embarrassed manner and undignified carriage formed a
painful contrast with the exalted and difficult functions of the
ministry which he was called upon to discharge.

"Fancy Alexander by the side of Pascal," said Ambrose. "What a
difference! In Alexander everything showed the real pope: his looks,
his words, his bearing, even the glance of his eye. But with Pascal
there is nothing! Bah! the Emperor has made a singular choice to fill
St. Peter's chair."

"Silence!" cried Anselm, "here comes the divinity of the festival, the
_Divus Augustus_ himself."

At this moment the mob shouted,--

"Long live the Emperor! Hail, Great Augustus!"

Frederic appeared mounted on a magnificent charger; by his side rode
the Empress Beatrice, and in front was borne the Imperial banner.

As he approached the castle, the crowd made a movement, the applause
ceased, and all eyes were turned to the tower of Saint Angelo.

In place of the image of the mighty Archangel, an immense flag hung
from its summit. This unexpected memento of their humiliation created a
most painful impression upon the Romans, who looked in vain for the
venerated emblem of their patron saint. Alexander's curse, with all its
fearful consequences, recurred to their minds, and hushed the cries of
rejoicing, even among the paid emissaries of the Chancellor, and it was
amid a death-like silence that Frederic moved towards the church of St.
Peter.

"What does this mean?" said Gervase, who, from the balcony, could not
perceive the flag; "everybody is staring at the castle, and the cries
of 'Hail to the Emperor! Glory to the great Augustus!' have ceased."

"Only look at the Imperial mantle! how it glitters!"

"Yes; and see how proudly Barbarossa rides! They might call him
_Jupiter tonans_!"

In fact, Frederic slowly advanced with the grave and stern bearing of a
conqueror. Not a trace of emotion was visible on his countenance, and
his eyes glanced calmly upon the admiring multitude.

A branch of laurel was entwined upon his diadem, and he bore, in his
right hand, the Imperial sceptre, with a more haughty grace than
Augustus himself in his triumphal chariot.

"The Empress is a gracious lady," said Anselm; "she looks like a lamb
by the side of a lion."

"Who is that red-bearded noble behind the Emp