The altar, which was destroyed, has not yet been replaced. That of the thirteenth century had in bas-relief on the retable the figures of our Lord on the cross, with the Blessed Virgin and St. John standing beneath, painted, on a gold ground. A cross hung over it, at the top of which was balanced the figure of an angel with outspread wings, bearing in his hands a Gothic ciborium, in which was enclosed the Blessed Sacrament. And why not still? Why is the mansion made once more so fair when the divine Guest dwells no longer there? When the magistracy assembles to resume its sittings, Mass is said. One Mass a year said in the _Sainte Chapelle_! [5] A branch from the crown of thorns was presented to the church at Treves. Two of the thorns also are in that of _Santa Croce in Gerusalemme_ at Rome. [6] _Mémoire sur les Instruments de la Passion._ [7] Until the Revolution the tomb of Pierre de Montereau still existed in the abbey church of St. Germain des Près, where he had built an exquisitely beautiful chapel to the Blessed Virgin, and where he was buried, at the age of fifty-four. [8] The present spire was erected by M. Lassus, who has faithfully followed the character of the rest of the building. [9] _Dictionnaire Archéologique._ [10] God has given me all that I possess; that which I shall spend for him and for the needy will be always the best invested. [11] “Chapel of Paris, erst so well maintained, Death, as I am advised, has robbed thee Of thy best friend, and left thee desolate Great folk and small, all make complaint at death.” [12] See Paul de St. Victor, _Sainte Chapelle_. [13] These _escourgettes_ of iron belonged to Monsieur Louis, King of France. SIR THOMAS MORE. _A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._ FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON. XIV. The following day, toward noon, Thomas More was seated, as usual after dinner, in the midst of his children. No one could discover in his countenance any trace of anxiety. He conversed with his customary cheerfulness. Margaret was a little pale, and it was evident that she had been weeping. She alone kept silence and held aloof from Sir Thomas. Near the window overlooking the garden, on the side next the river, sat Lady More engaged in knitting, according to her invariable habit, and murmuring between her teeth against the monkey, which had three or four times carried off her ball of yarn and tangled the thread. Sir Thomas from time to time raised his eyes to the clock; he then began to interrogate his children about the work each had done during the morning. At last he called the little jester, who was pulling the dog’s ears and turning summersaults in one corner of the room, trying to make his master laugh, whom he found less cheerful than usual. “Come hither,” said Sir Thomas. “Henry Pattison, do you hear me?”