Not a trace of stoical concealment; but also not a trace of flinching.

He sings to the end, and St.Peter's listens in a tender hush.
Then there seems to be a moment of collapse.

The long straight lips close as though with a snap, the upper jaw protruding; the eyelids drop; the emaciated form sinks upon itself .-- But his guards raise the chair, and the Pope's trance passes away.

He opens his eyes, and braces himself for the last effort.

Whiter than the gorgeous cope which falls about him, he raises himself, clinging to the chair; he lifts the skeleton fingers of his partially gloved hand; his look searches the crowd.
Lucy fell on her knees, a sob in her throat.