adorn the enormous mass, nor the amazing number of statues, nor the sight
of men smaller than flies on the Piazza del Duomo, nor the vast stretch
of flat country which spreads for miles on every side of the city--none
of these sights kindled the spark of enthusiasm within me which has often
glowed for much less. No, what pleased me was something quite different,
a detail not noticed in the guide-books, I suppose.

I had come down from the roof and was wandering in the vast nave from
pillar to pillar, when I found myself beneath the lantern. I raised my
eyes, but the flood of golden light compelled me to close them. The
sunlight passing through the yellow glass of the windows overhead
encircled the mighty vault of the lantern with a fiery crown, and played
around the walls of its cage in rays which, growing fainter as they fell,
flooded the floor with their expiring flames, a mysterious dayspring,
a diffused glory, through which litany and sacred chant winged their way
up toward the Infinite.

I left the cathedral tired out, dazed with weariness and sunlight, and
fell asleep in a chair as soon as I got back to my room, on the fifth
floor of the Albergo dell' Agnello.

I had been asleep for about an hour, perhaps, when I thought I heard a
voice near me repeating "Illustre Signore!"

I did not wake. The voice continued with a murmur of sibilants:

"Illustrissimo Signore!"

This drew me from my sleep, for the human ear is very susceptible to
superlatives.