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 ALEXANDER MANZONI

T was a day in May. The vast square before the Cathedral of Milan was crowded with people. Yet the hundred spires and thousand statues of that wondrous church were unobserved; for heads were bowed, eyes filled with tears, and hearts were mourning. The streets of the city were hung with black, the front of the cathedral was draped in black. As the great central doors unfolded, the same funereal drapery was seen extending along the magnificent nave of the church.

There at the portal stood the Archbishop of Milan and his clergy—weeping. The military bands sounded their dirge, the long lines of soldiers presented arms, a coffin passed, followed by princes, nobles, and representatives of friendly nations. And the bells of the city tolled.

A stranger approaching that cathedral to learn the name of the king, or royal prince, who was thus mourned and thus honoured, would have 81