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Stepping on tip-toe up to the altar- rails, she instinctively dropped on her knees, while she read all that could be seen of the worn inscription on the sarcophagus from that side-'In Resurrectione Sanctorum Resurget. The atmosphere around her seemed surcharged with mystical suggestions, a vague poetic sense of the super-human and divine moved her to a faint touch of fear, and made her heart beat more quickly than its wont.
Walden, folding his arms on the altar-rails, hid his face, but the Bishop, clasping his hands and fixing his eyes on the word 'Resurget' that flashed out of the worn alabaster wherein the unknown 'Saint' reposed, seemed to gather to himself all the sunlight that poured through the window above him, and to exhale from his own slight worn frame something like the mystic halo of glory pictured round the figure of an apostle or evangelist.
" In Resurrectione Sanctorum Resurget! How simple! how new! how fresh! To think that anyone ever held such a child's faith!" "The Church is still supposed to hold it," said Walden steadily, "And her ministers also. Otherwise, religion is a farce, and its professors much less honest than the trusted servant who steals his master's money!"
Tender memories of her father crowded upon her, her mother's face, grown familiar to her sight from her daily visits to the now no longer veiled picture in the Manor gallery, shone out upon her from the altar like a glorified angel above the white sarcophagus where the word 'Resurget' sparkled jewel-like in the sunshine, and she began to feel that after all there was something in the Christian faith that was divinely helpful and uplifting to the soul.
The rays of light filtering through them were wonderful and mystical, such as might fall from the pausing wings of some great ministering angel, and under the blaze of splendid colour, the white sarcophagus with its unknown 'Saint' asleep, lay steeped in soft folds of crimson and azure, gold and amethyst, while even the hollow notches in the sculptured word 'Resurget' seemed filled with delicate tints like those painted by old-world monks on treasured missals.
In all, he had remained in the church for the space of ten minutes. Over those heads full of worldly cares and profane desires the Dies iræ rumbled like a storm: "Mors stupebit et natura, Quum resurget creatura Judicanti responsura." "Tell me, Dutil, how could that little Nanteuil, who is pretty and intelligent, get herself mixed up with a dirty mummer like Chevalier?"
And recollecting that fresco of Signorelli's, you feel as if this vast, tall canvas at S. Maria dell' Orto, where topple and welter the dead and the quick, were merely so much rhetorical rhodomontade by the side of the old hymn of the Last Day "Mors stupebit et natura Quum resurget creatura Judicanti responsura."
Recordare, Jesu pie, Quod sum causa tuae viae; Ne me perdas ilia die. * Lacrymosa dies illa Qua resurget ex fa villa, Judicandus homo reus; Huic ergo parce, Deus! Pie Jesu, Domine, Dona eis requiem.
Sancta obit.. In. coelum.. sanctorum., transmigravit... In Resurrectione Sanctorum resurget M.. Beatse. ma.. R. But to what perished identity these significant words applied remained an impenetrable mystery. Every old record was carefully searched, every scrap of ancient history wherein the neighbourhood of St.
But he now found that his penitence had never been sincere and efficacious. This one damning sin obscured all his good actions; and he felt if he died unconfessed, and with the weight of guilt upon his soul, he should perish everlastingly. Again he fled from the torment of retrospection, and again heard the choir thundering forth Lacrymosa dies illa, Quâ resurget ex favillâ Judicandus homo reus.
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