There were flute-players among
them, and all carried goblets in their hands.
* * * * *
Below, in the old Basilica of St. Peter, stood the Pope before the
altar, and performed in silence the midnight mass. The church was
crowded, and everyone was on his knees. The silence was so deep that
the rustle of the white sleeve of the officiant could be heard when
he elevated the cup. But another sound was audible, which seemed to
be measuring out the last moments of the Millennium. It beat like
the pulse in the ear of a feverish man, and at the same rate. The
door of the sacristy stood open, and the great clock which hung
there ticked calmly and steadfastly, once in a second.
The Pope, who was outwardly just as calm, had probably left the door
open in order to produce the utmost effect at the great moment, for
his face was pale with emotion, but he did not move, and his hands
did not tremble.
The mass was over, and a death-like silence ensued. The people
expected the Lord's servant at the altar to speak a few words of
comfort. But he said nothing; he seemed absorbed in prayer, and had
stretched out his hands towards heaven.
The clock ticked, the people sighed, but nothing happened. Like
children afraid of the dark, the congregation lay with their faces
towards the ground, and dared not look up.
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