bitterness, picks his way slowly down the steps,
holding that, yellow wand of his away from him
with two fingers. Long shall I recollect the
helpless, timid look with which, as he sits
down, he tries to adjust the long and inconvenient
emblem he has brought back with him;
and I translate that sour pout upon the sour
mouth into "What do I with this unmanageable
toy?" "Que diable fais-je dans cette
galère!" And so he presently fades out, being
drifted awav in the ranks of the snowy figures.
But I take nome with me the impassive vellum
cheeks, the close-grained face cut out of solid
ivory. It walks with me all day long. It
tempts me back to it with overpowering
interest. I feel that there is a world of mystery
working ever so deep beneath those cheeks.

Rolls away now the dark cloud that overhangs
that week—the sad and lugubrious succession of
commemorative offices; the dismal wailing, most
musical but most bald and austere; the flaring
of yellow torches, and flitting of indistinct
figures in the half-darkness,—and the glorious
Easter Day has flashed out, triumphant and
jubilant, with ringing of bells, and fuming
incense, and riotous organ music, and figures in
sparkling silver and scarlet, and other cheerful
tones, bathed in a dazzling sunlight.

As humanity, crowded very densely
before me, is rent asunder periodically, I catch
glimpses of that picturesque function in all
its stages, of the silver-white figures, seen
mistily through incense clouds, now clustered on
the steps, now scattered, now flitting past like
spirits to be suddenly shut out by a heave of the
dense humanity. Then do I hear the gospel
chanted in Greek, according to the quaint
tradition, and then, humanity parting suddenly, I
see through the cloud a small train glide
by—a figure, snow white and sparkling in
sheen, whom I sem to know, and start as I
recognise——

The vellum cheeks, the ivory yellow face
again, floating through this day's solemnity as
Deacon. Deacon in the high high mass!
Desperately do I struggle with perverse humanity
before me, who let me have but short-lived
glimpses of that small glittering figure, gliding,
not walking, through its function with a matchless
grace. But with the day has come a change.
The vellum face is glorified, is lit up with a soft
tranquility. There is the sweetest smile in the
world on the bar mouth, with not a trace of rue-
leaves. There is even a soft melancholy, which
draws you with an irresistible fascination. It
looks holy, it looks resigned, and even persecuted.
No one, Romans will tell you, takes his
part in this function so magnificently. Hush!
irreverent humanity in front there! And from
out of a dazzling mystery of lights, priests,
acolytes, and fuming incense, rises a soft, sweet
voice, very clear aud melodious, the cardinal
Deacon chanting the gospel. And by this duty,
being brought to face stiffened ana bedizened
diplomacy, those functionaries garotted in their
gold lace, look askant at each other with a smile
and almost sneer; and then I see rue-leaves
back again, with a flash of menace and contempt;
but all passed away in a second, even as he opens
the great missal. And so through all the rest
of the ways and windings of the ceremonial,
tortuous certainly, I see him glide and flit by
with the same soft tranquillity and matchless
dignity. I feel that I must know this mysterious
man.

The lights are gone, the figures have all
faded away, and the sun has gone down. The
pageant is over for this year. Only one day
later, a retiring priest, who would not harm a
fly, tells how he has that morning, wandering
among the galleries in the "Vatican, lost his
way; and how, of a sudden, fierce sbirri came
sweeping along, precursors as it were, clearing
from the road all dangerous things—all men or
women in fact. For he is coming, the vellum-
cheeked, passing from the Pope's chambers to
his own. Back, intruders! disguised assassins,
as ye may prove to be. So priest is hustled
away to a corner anywhere, with much suspicion
and violence, while presently passes by swiftly
the black short figure, dark and terrible, and is
gone in an instant. Is not here a new element,
a new part in the piece? Vellum-cheeked, with
Damocles's sword shining over his head. It adds
a deeper fascination to that picture. Again I
whisper to myself, "I must see, and know, and
speak with him."

One night, passing late under our modest
archway, I find a state of general illumination
and festivity, wholly abnormal and foreign to
the known habits of the host. There is a flush
and hum of expectation, and men look round
corners and convenient places with a sense as
of some awful event now at hand and about to
burst. Grand-Ducal Calmuck disguised, now
in resplendent livery, is seen afar off at the top
of the marble flight, waiting tranquilly. Host
now surely demented, and with a wild look in
his eyes I had not noticed before, brushes by me
without speech, still holding his head between his
hands. I can see before many hours he will be
ripe for the waistcoat that is not crooked.
Information being hopeless from such a quarter, an
intelligent menial lets me know that "II Cardinale"
is expected to visit the grand-ducal
immensities now residing at the hotel; and
knowing that to all intents and purposes there is
but one definite practical cardinal spoken of in
the city, I can guess to whom this points.

The vellum-cheeked again! Thus brought on
the stage with this mysterious designation—
the cardinal, the man, the can-ning man. All
things fit harmoniously with his popular
attributes. I have heard him talked of with bated
breath as plain HE! "What will HE say? what
will HE do?" falls on my ear at street-corners,
as two purple monsignori glide past. Bogueyism
still in the ascendant! and in excellent keeping
is this nightly flight through the shadows from
the three little windows high in the Vatican.
Who rides by night? the great mystery-man
and vampire cardinal, as he is known in popular