Again fell the heavy lashes, half veiling the innocent love in the timid
eyes, as the Painter parted the massive braids from the spotless brow,
and softly kissed the snowy forehead of his betrothed.

The harp of Angelo quivered, as the sun set behind the crimson clouds,
under his nervous touch. Some sadness seemed to weigh upon his buoyant
spirit too, in this eventful eve. His music always pictured the depths
of his own soul, and he forced the heaven tones to wail the human
Miserere. But the Beauty into which the sorrow was transfigured gave
promise that it would end in the triumphant chorus of the 'Hosanna in
Excelsis.' For music gives the absolute peace in the absolute conflict;
the absolute conflict to terminate in the absolute peace.

Fair as the Angel of Hope, the Rose listened with her heart. Her
childlike, deep blue eyes were raised to heaven, while her long golden
curls, lighting rather than shading her pale brow, like the halos of dim
glory which the light vapors wreathe round the moon, mingled with the
darker flow of wavy hair falling upon the shoulder of the harpist, on
which she leaned as if to catch the flying sounds as they soared from
the heart of the loved one.

'Thy song is very sad,' said the Rose, as her eyes rested tenderly upon
the inspired face. 'Is there no Gloria to-night, Angelo?'

'I cannot sing it now, sweet Rosalie! The Hosanna is for heaven; not for
a world in which Love is, and Death may enter. If I am to lose thee, my
soul must chant the Miserere. Ah! that thought unmans me. I cannot part
from thee, sweet wife. Cling closer, closer to me, Rosalie. There! Death
must be strong to untwine that clasp! But he alone is strong--and
Love'--