And now had we reached the last sarcophagus, now
were we abreast of the last bas-relief, already had we recovered the
arrow-like flight of the illimitable central aisle, when coming up this
aisle to meet us we beheld afar off a female child, that rode in a
carriage as frail as flowers. The mists which went before her hid the
fawns that drew her, but could not hide the shells and tropic flowers
with which she played--but could not hide the lovely smiles by which
she uttered her trust in the mighty cathedral, and in the cherubim that
looked down upon her from the mighty shafts of its pillars. Face to
face she was meeting us; face to face she rode, as if danger there were
none. "Oh, baby!" I exclaimed, "shalt thou be the ransom for Waterloo?
Must we, that carry tidings of great joy to every people, be messengers
of ruin to thee!" In horror I rose at the thought; but then also, in
horror at the thought, rose one that was sculptured on a bas-relief--a
Dying Trumpeter. Solemnly from the field of battle he rose to his feet;
and, unslinging his stony trumpet, carried it, in his dying anguish, to
his stony lips--sounding once, and yet once again; proclamation that,
in _thy_ ears, oh baby! spoke from the battlements of death.
Immediately deep shadows fell between us, and aboriginal silence. The
choir had ceased to sing. The hoofs of our horses, the dreadful rattle
of our harness, the groaning of our wheels, alarmed the graves no more.
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