"My God! My God!" he moaned, "In what have we offended Thee that
Thou shouldst visit us with such heavy affliction? Angela, my
child!--my little girl!--Angela!"
The servants had by this time clustered round, a pale and terrified
group, sobbing and crying loudly,--only the old valet retained
sufficient presence of mind to light two or three of the lamps in
the studio. As this was done, and the sudden luminance dispersed
some of the darker shadows in the room, the grand picture on the
easel was thrown into full prominence,--and the magnificent Christ,
descending in clouds of glory, seemed to start from the painted
canvas and move towards them all. And even while he wrung his hands
and wept, the Cardinal's glance was suddenly caught and transfixed
by this splendour,--he staggered back amazed, and murmured feebly--
"Angela! THIS is her work!--this her great picture, and she--she is
dead!"
Sovrani suddenly clutched him by the arm, and drew him close to the
couch where he had just laid the body of his daughter down.
"Now, where was this God you serve, think you, when this happened?"
he demanded, in a hoarse whisper, while his aged eyes glittered
feverishly, and his stern dark face under the tossed white hair was
as a frowning mask of vengeance,--"Is the world so rich in sweet
women that SHE should be slain?"
Half paralysed with grief, the unhappy Cardinal sank on his knees
beside the murdered girl,--taking the passive hand he kissed it, the
tears flowing down his furrowed cheeks.
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