Marcia looked at the woman standing beside her, a pilgrim from the Abruzzi, judging from her dress. She was raising an illumined face to the little balcony where the priest was holding above their heads the holy relic. In her arms she held a baby whose face she was turning upward also, while she murmured prayers in his ears. Marcia’s glance wandered away over the crowd—the poor pilgrim peasants whose upturned faces, worn by work and poverty, were softened for the moment into a holy awe. Then she raised her eyes to the balcony where the priest in his white robes was holding high above his head the shining silver cross in which was incased St. Peter’s dearest relic, the tiny splinter of the true cross. The light was centred on the little balcony; every eye in the great concourse was fixed upon it. The priest was fat, his face was red, his attitude theatrical. The whole spectacle was theatrical. A quick revulsion of feeling passed over her. A few moments before, as she watched the procession of cardinals, she had been ready to admit the spiritual significance of the scene; now she saw only its spectacular side. It was merely a play, a delusion got up to dazzle the poor peasants. This church was the only thing they had in life, and, after all, what did it do for them? What could St. Veronica’s handkerchief, what could a splinter of the true cross, do to brighten their lives? It was superstition, not religion, that was being offered to the peasants of Italy. She looked again across the sea of upturned faces and shook her head. ‘Isn’t it pitiful?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t it picturesque?’ echoed Paul. ‘That priest up there knows he’s deluding all these people, and he’s just as solemn as if he believed in the relics himself. The church is still so hopelessly mediaeval!’ ‘That’s the beauty of the church,’ Paul objected. ‘It’s still mediaeval, while the rest of the world is so hopelessly nineteenth-century. I like to see these peasants believing in St. Veronica’s handkerchief and the power of the sacred Bambino to cure disease. I think it’s a beautiful exhibition of faith in a world where faith is out of fashion. I don’t blame the priests in the least for keeping it up. It’s a protest against the age. They’re about the only artists left. If I were a priest I’d learn prestidigitation, and substantiate the efficacy of the relics with a miracle or so.’ ‘It’s simply fostering superstition.’ ‘Take their superstition away and you deprive them of their most picturesque quality.’ ‘You don’t care for anything but what’s picturesque!’ she exclaimed in a tone half scornful. Paul did not answer. The ceremony was over and the crowd was beginning to pour out. They turned with the stream and wedged their way toward the right-hand entrance, near which their carriages were waiting. Paul manœuvred very adroitly so that the crowd should separate them from the rest of the party at the door.