The gloom was broken by countless tongues of flame from lamps of silver
and alabaster burning in the farther chapels, while wandering lights
streaming through the openings of the dome filled it with wonderful
waves of color--only half-revealing the treasures of ivory and jewels
and precious marbles and mosaics, wrought with texts and symbols, but
wholly making felt the mystery and beauty. The vague perfume of those
faint mists of floating incense, crossing and recrossing the scattered
rays of sunshine, mingled with the fragrance of the orange blossoms from
which the light tread of the bride-maidens seemed to crush a breath of
benediction.
Coming out of the sunlight into this still, beautiful, holy place--the
chant sweet and sacred accompanying her steps, with the Cross repeated
again and again in the heights of the domes, with the dear familiar form
of the Mother Mary on every side lifting adoring eyes to the crowning
figure of the Christ, while the saints who graciously leaned to her from
their golden backgrounds in the great vaulted spaces above recalled the
legends inseparably linked with their intimate friendly faces and
brought back the atmosphere of her own Matrice--her mother church--this
maiden of Murano felt suddenly at home.
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