The ceremony of presenting consecrated candles to the Pope (_dei ceri benedetti_) was to take place in the neighbouring Sala del Trono. At one end of this lofty, narrow, frescoed hall stood, under a baldaquin, the golden throne of the Pope; at the other end, a great crucifix supported by an angel. On either side of the central passage, kept clear by the Swiss guards, were long benches, on which were already seated various pilgrims, all trying to get as near as possible to the throne. The best places had already long been taken by clergy of all nationalities, with enormous opera-glasses and firm intentions to miss not the smallest detail of the interesting spectacle. Subdued excitement reigned supreme in the half-darkened hall, with its drawn red blinds and its sparse, electric lights. There was a hushed murmur of low-toned conversation—everyone spoke in a whisper, except, of course, the Americans, who exchanged silly little remarks and impressions in unceremonious, strident tones. A Frenchman, with a small pointed beard was, in a loud voice, relating to someone something about an inn in Naples, where one could get excellent wine and macaroni. With the impudence of a dull-minded Atheist, he smacked his lips over various details, keenly enjoying the paradox contained in the mere fact of discussing such things at the Vatican. Here and there in the crowd, however, could also be seen the rapturous faces of youthful priests and young girls. Full of religious exaltation, trembling with emotion, they kept their shining eyes fixed on the door before which stood the papal guards. At last there was a wave of movement. The crowd rose, made as though it would fall on its knees, but thought better of the intention, and remained standing. Surrounded by his Court, His Holiness, in white raiment and a little white cap, passed to the throne, and, throwing a quick glance over the assemblage, took his place.