Entering the portico of the nearest church, they saw what might have been taken for two ancient, mossy statues, seated one at either side of the door, one representing a man as ragged and gray as Rip Van Winkle after his nap, the other a woman well fitted to be his companion. The statues stirred, however, at the sound of steps, extended their withered hands, and commenced a sort of gabbling appeal, in which nothing was distinguishable but the inevitable _qualche cosa_. Inside the church, beside the beautiful Presence indicated by the ever-burning lamp, there was but one person, a gigantic man, all white, who sat leaning forward a little, with the fingers of his right hand tangled in his beard. They saw him gazing, almost glaring, at them across the church as they seated themselves near the door after a short adoration. The painted roof invited their eyes to glimpses of heaven, the tribune walls shone with the story of St. Peter liberated by an angel, and the antique columns told of pagan emperors whom they had served before they were raised to hold a canopy over the head of the King of kings; but through them all, becoming every moment more importunate and terrible, the stare of those motionless, stony eyes drew theirs with an uncomfortable fascination, and the figure seemed to lean more forward, as if about to stride toward them, and the fingers to move in the beard, as if longing to catch and toss them out of the church. “He appears to resent our not saluting him,” Mr. Vane said. “I do not need an introduction. Suppose we go to him before he comes clattering down the nave to us!” They rose, and, with a diffidence amounting almost to fear, went up the aisle to pay their respects to Michael Angelo’s _Moses_. “O Mr. Vane!” the Signora whispered, suddenly touching his arm, “does he look as if he went up the mountain to bring down Protestantism?” She said it impulsively, and was ashamed of herself the next moment. He was not offended, however, but smiled slightly, and, feeling the touch, drew her hand into his arm. “He doesn’t look like a man who would carry any sort of _ism_ about long.” He was looking at the _Moses_ as he spoke; but he felt the dissatisfaction which the lady at his side did not indicate by word or motion, and added after a moment: “It must be owned that Protestantism has reduced the stone tables to dust, and that your church is the only one that has graven laws.” She did not venture to press him any farther. The question with him, then, was evidently whether graven laws were necessary. He was not at all likely to write his faith in the dust of the sects.