The mass was over, and the
Duke and Duchess were to descend from their tribune and venerate the
holy image before it was carried through the church.
Odo rose and gave his hand to his wife. They had not seen each other,
save in public, since their last conversation in her closet. The Duchess
walked with set lips and head erect, keeping her profile turned to him
as they descended the steps and advanced to the choir. None knew better
how to take her part in such a pageant. She had the gift of drawing upon
herself the undivided attention of any assemblage in which she moved;
and the consciousness of this power lent a kind of Olympian buoyancy to
her gait. The richness of her dress and her extravagant display of
jewels seemed almost a challenge to the sacred image blazing like a
rainbow beneath its golden canopy; and Odo smiled to think that his
childish fancy had once compared the brilliant being at his side to the
humble tinsel-decked Virgin of the church at Pontesordo.
As the couple advanced, stillness fell on the church. The air was full
of the lingering haze of incense, through which the sunlight from the
clerestory poured in prismatic splendours on the statue of the Virgin.
Rigid, superhuman, a molten flamboyancy of gold and gems, the
wonder-working Madonna shone out above her worshippers. The Duke and
Duchess paused, bowing deeply, below the choir. Then they mounted the
steps and knelt before the shrine. As they did so a crash broke the
silence, and the startled devotees saw that the ducal diadem had fallen
from the Madonna's head.
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