The Marble Faun Volume 1 - Page 114/130

"For Heaven's sake, Miriam," cried Kenyon, astonished at the wild energy

of her talk; "paint the picture of man's struggle against sin according

to your own idea! I think it will be a masterpiece."

"The picture would have its share of truth, I assure you," she answered;

"but I am sadly afraid the victory would fail on the wrong side. Just

fancy a smoke-blackened, fiery-eyed demon bestriding that nice young

angel, clutching his white throat with one of his hinder claws; and

giving a triumphant whisk of his scaly tail, with a poisonous dart at

the end of it! That is what they risk, poor souls, who do battle with

Michael's enemy."

It now, perhaps, struck Miriam that her mental disquietude was impelling

her to an undue vivacity; for she paused, and turned away from the

picture, without saying a word more about it. All this while, moreover,

Donatello had been very ill at ease, casting awe-stricken and inquiring

glances at the dead monk; as if he could look nowhere but at that

ghastly object, merely because it shocked him. Death has probably a

peculiar horror and ugliness, when forced upon the contemplation of a

person so naturally joyous as Donatello, who lived with completeness in

the present moment, and was able to form but vague images of the future.

"What is the matter, Donatello?" whispered Miriam soothingly. "You are

quite in a tremble, my poor friend! What is it?"

"This awful chant from beneath the church," answered Donatello; "it

oppresses me; the air is so heavy with it that I can scarcely draw my

breath. And yonder dead monk! I feel as if he were lying right across my

heart."

"Take courage!" whispered she again "come, we will approach close to

the dead monk. The only way, in such cases, is to stare the ugly horror

right in the face; never a sidelong glance, nor half-look, for those are

what show a frightfull thing in its frightfullest aspect. Lean on me,

dearest friend! My heart is very strong for both of us. Be brave; and

all is well."

Donatello hung back for a moment, but then pressed close to Miriam's

side, and suffered her to lead him up to the bier. The sculptor

followed. A number of persons, chiefly women, with several children

among them, were standing about the corpse; and as our three friends

drew nigh, a mother knelt down, and caused her little boy to kneel,

both kissing the beads and crucifix that hung from the monk's girdle.

Possibly he had died in the odor of sanctity; or, at all events, death

and his brown frock and cowl made a sacred image of this reverend

father.