had been to his profit. That out of this, too, he had wrought some of
his greatness.

The interior of the vault was of red marble, and, such of chiselling
as there was done, seemed wonderful to me even in my frame of mind. I
took it all in, through unwilling, though fascinated eyes.

I have never seen it since. I can never forget it.

Yet art is, and always has been, so much to me, that I could not help,
even in my strangely wrought-up mental condition, comprehending and
admiring his scheme and the masterly manner in which he had worked it
out.

At my feet, as I stood on the threshold, was an elaborate scroll
engraved on the stone and surrounded with a wreath of leaves, that
vied with the tombs of the old world. As I gazed at it, and read the
gothic letters in which it was set forth that this monument was
erected in adoration of this woman, how well I remembered the day when
we had crouched together over those stones in the crypt at Certosa, to
admire the chiselling of Donatello which had inspired this.

There was a space left for the signature of the artist, which would, I
knew, some day be written there boldly enough!

In the centre stood the sarcophagus.

I felt its presence, though my eyes avoided it.

Above, on the wall, were the words borne along by carved angels: