Then, in a proud timidity--as one who feels herself an alien and on sufferance--she hangs again upon the incomparable scene.

This is St.
Peter's; there is the dome of Michael Angelo; and here, advancing towards her amid the red of the cardinals, the clatter of the guards, the tossing of the flabellae, as though looking at her alone--the two waxen fingers raised for her alone--is the white-robed triple-crowned Pope.
She threw herself upon the sight with passion, trying to penetrate and possess it; and it baffled her, passed her by.

Some force of resistance within her cried out to it that she was not its subject--rather its enemy! And august, unheeding, the great pageant swept on.

Close, close to her now! Down sink the crowd upon the chairs; the heads fall like corn before the wind.

Lucy is bending too.