Just then the bell pealed forth. He dropped
his hat, and with folded hands offered a short prayer.
Anyone who has worked for years, in the sweat of his brow, for future
and fortune, knows how Hans felt as he stood there in his mute
eloquence. His God understood it, too.
Now the crowd surged into the Cathedral, and the critical moment had
arrived when the artist gave his work, executed through long, lonely
days and nights, freely to the public eye. One last look he cast upon
his creation, then he withdrew, and in anxious suspense watched the
impression it would make upon the assembled people.
The morning sun sent her full rays directly upon the altar, and an
exclamation of astonishment echoed from the high-vaulted roof. Joy and
wonder filled each breast. There stood the altar before the people in
all its glory. Was it really wood--stiff, hard wood--from which these
figures had been carved? Were they not human? And that host of angels
that seemed to be singing "Hallelujah," each one so perfectly natural.
All figures were life size. The entire work was entwined and crowned
with wreaths of artistically carved foliage, the center branch of which
reached upward to the arched ceiling.
The untrained eye of the simple villagers could not all at once, drink
in such a work. Not one of them had ever beheld the like. They felt
there must be some magic in it. They now crowded around the artist, who,
modest and deeply affected, felt every eye that beamed upon him.
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