Читать книгу Fabiola; Or, The Church of the Catacombs онлайн

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“True, Sebastian; and I have sometimes thought, that, if

“Hark!” said Pancratius, “these are the trumpet-notes that summon us.”

the under-side of that firmament up to which the eye of man, however wretched and sinful, may look, be so beautiful and bright, what must that upper-side be, down upon which the eye of boundless Glory deigns to glance! I imagine it to be like a richly-embroidered veil, through the texture of which a few points of golden thread may be allowed to pass; and these only reach us. How transcendently royal must be that upper surface, on which tread the lightsome feet of angels, and of the just made perfect!”

“A graceful thought, Pancratius, and no less true. It makes the veil, between us laboring here and the triumphal church above, thin and easily to be passed.”

“And pardon me, Sebastian,” said the youth, with the same look up to his friend, as a few evenings before had met his mother’s inspired gaze, “pardon me if, while you wisely speculate upon a future arch to record the triumph of Christianity, I see already before me, built and open, the arch through which we, feeble as we are, may lead the Church speedily to the triumph of glory, and ourselves to that of bliss.”