A brave soul; One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best And noblest of them all; but he has made me Sad with his sadness.

As I look on you My heart grows lighter.

I behold a man Who lives in an ideal world, apart From all the rude collisions of our life, In a calm atmosphere.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Your Eminence Is surely jesting.

If you knew the life Of artists as I know it, you might think Far otherwise.
IPPOLITO.
But wherefore should I jest?
The world of art is an ideal world,-- The world I love, and that I fain would live in; So speak to me of artists and of art, Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians That now illustrate Rome.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Of the musicians, I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro And chapel-master of his Holiness, Who trains the Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.
In church this morning, I listened to a mass of Goudimel, Divinely chanted.

In the Incarnatus, In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian, A Neapolitan love-song.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
You amaze me.
Was it a wanton song?
IPPOLITO.
Not a divine one.
I am not over-scrupulous, as you know, In word or deed, yet such a song as that.
Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir, And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place; There's something wrong in it.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
There's something wrong In everything.