The tenebræ service on Holy Thursday is the one time in the year when St. Peter’s may be seen at night. The great church looms vaster and emptier and more solemn then than at any other time. The eye cannot penetrate to the distant dome hidden in shadows. The long nave stretches interminably into space, the chapels deepen and broaden until they are churches themselves. The clustered pillars reach upward till they are lost in the darkness. What the eye cannot grasp the imagination seizes upon, and the vast interior grows and widens until it seems to stretch out arms to inclose all Christendom itself. On this one night it does inclose all Rome—nobility and peasants, Italians and foreigners: those who are of the faith, and those who are merely spectators; those who come to worship; those who come to be amused—St. Peter’s receives them all with the same impartiality. Standing outside, it had seemed to them that the whole city had flowed through the doors; but within, the church was still approximately empty. As they walked down the broad nave in the dimness of twilight, Marcia turned to the young man beside her. ‘At first I didn’t think St. Peter’s was impressive—that is, compared to Milan and Cologne and some of the other cathedrals—but it’s like the rest of Rome, it grows and grows until——’ ‘It comes to be the whole world,’ he supplied. By the bronze baldacchino Mrs. Royston spread her camp-stools and sat down. ‘This is the best place we could choose,’ she said contentedly as she folded her hands. ‘We shan’t be very near the choir, but we can hear just as well, and we shall have an excellent view of the altar-washing and the sacred relics.’ She spoke in the tone of one who is picking out a stall for a theatrical performance. From time to time friends of either the Roystons or Marcia drifted up and, having paused to chat a few minutes, passed on, giving place to others. As one group left them with smiles and friendly bows, Marcia turned to Paul, who was standing beside her. ‘It’s really dreadful,’ she said, ‘the way the foreigners take possession of Rome. This might as well be a reception at the Embassy. If I were the pope, I would put up a sign on the door of St. Peter’s saying, “No _forestieri_ admitted.”’ ‘Ah, but there are no _forestieri_ in the case of St. Peter’s; it belongs to all nations.’