went down. Through the beautiful rose-window of the Cathedral of
Notre Dame, he flashed his parting rays, weaving bright patterns of
ruby, gold and amethyst on the worn pavement of the ancient pile
which enshrines the tomb of Richard the Lion-Hearted, as also that
of Henry the Second, husband to Catherine de Medicis and lover of
the brilliant Diane de Poitiers,--and one broad beam fell purpling
aslant into the curved and fretted choir-chapel especially dedicated
to the Virgin, there lighting up with a warm glow the famous
alabaster tomb known as "Le Mourant" or "The Dying One." A strange
and awesome piece of sculpture truly, is this same "Mourant"!--
showing, as it does with deft and almost appalling exactitude, the
last convulsion of a strong man's body gripped in the death-agony.
No delicate delineator of shams and conventions was the artist of
olden days whose ruthless chisel shaped these stretched sinews,
starting veins, and swollen eyelids half-closed over the tired
eyes!--he must have been a sculptor of truth,--truth downright and
relentless,--truth divested of all graceful coverings, and nude as
the "Dying One" thus realistically portrayed. Ugly truth too,--
unpleasant to the sight of the worldly and pleasure-loving tribe who
do not care to be reminded of the common fact that they all, and we
all, must die. Yet the late sunshine flowed very softly on and over
the ghastly white, semi-transparent form, outlining it with as much
tender glory as the gracious figure of Mary Virgin herself, bending
with outstretched hands from a grey niche, fine as a cobweb of old
lace on which a few dim jewels are sewn. Very beautiful, calm and
restful at this hour was "Our Lady's Chapel," with its high, dark
intertwisting arches, mutilated statues, and ancient tattered
battle-banners hanging from the black roof and swaying gently with
every little breath of wind. The air, perfumed with incense-odours,
seemed weighted with the memory of prayers and devotional silences,-