The stars were lost in the deep gray-blue of the sky; a solemn
stillness, like the presage of some divine event, seemed for a moment to
hold the pulses of the universe; then a soft rose crept into the shimmer
of the water and crested the snows on the distant Euganean Hills, the
transient, many-tinted glory of the east reflected itself in opal lights
upon the silver sea, then suddenly swept the landscape in one dazzling
glow of gold--and the joy-bells rang out. For to-day a festa had been
granted in Murano.
Then, wrapping herself closely in the soft folds of her gray mantle,
falling Madonna-wise from her head and shrouding her figure, she glided
for the last time over the _ponte_ and down past the sleeping homes of
Murano; for it was yet early for matins, and she would have the Madonna
all to herself as she knelt with her heart full of tenderness for the
dear life this day should merge in that other which beckoned her with
joyous anticipation--yet stilled to serenity by the golden glory and
promise of the dawn, and the beautiful, self-sacrificing, upholding
faith of the great-hearted Girolamo.
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