last rise of sap within its ancient walls, a reinvigoration of that
Catholic blood which formerly had demanded that the pile should be a
stupendous one, the veritable king of temples, and which now was striving
to reanimate it with the powerful breath of life, and this at the very
hour when death was beginning to fall upon its over-vast, deserted nave
and aisles? The crowd was still streaming forth, filling the piazza, and
Pierre's heart was wrung by frightful anguish, for that throng with its
shout had just swept his last hope away. On the previous afternoon, after
the reception of the pilgrimage, he had yet been able to deceive himself
by overlooking the necessity for money which bound the Pope to earth in
order that he might see nought but the feeble old man, all spirituality,
resplendent like the symbol of moral authority. But his faith in such a
pastor of the Gospel, free from all considerations of earthly wealth, and
king of none other than a heavenly kingdom, had fled. Not only did the
Peter's Pence impose hard servitude upon Leo XIII but he was also the
prisoner of papal tradition--the eternal King of Rome, riveted to the
soil of Rome, unable either to quit the city or to renounce the temporal
power. The fatal end would be collapse on the spot, the dome of St.
Peter's falling even as the temple of Olympian Jupiter had fallen,
Catholicism strewing the grass with its ruins whilst elsewhere schism
burst forth: a new faith for the new nations. Of this Pierre had a
grandiose and tragical vision: he beheld his dream destroyed, his book
swept away amidst that cry which spread around him as if flying to the
four corners of the Catholic world "/Evviva il Papa-Re! evviva il
Papa-Re! Long live the Pope-King!" But even in that hour of the papacy's
passing triumph he already felt that the giant of gold and marble on
which he stood was oscillating, even as totter all old and rotten
societies.

At last he took his way down again, and a fresh shock of emotion came to