On this plank-bridge sat the Christ, His legs hidden in this tomb, holding a cross.

His face was haggard and hollow, He was crowned with green thorns, and His emaciated body was spotted all over by the ends of the scourges as if the wounds were flea-bites.

Over Him, in the air, floated the instruments of the Passion: the nails, the sponge, a hammer and a spear; to the left, on a very small scale, were the busts of Jesus and of Judas, near a pedestal on which lay three rows of pieces of silver.
In front of this altar, adoring this truly hideous Saviour painted in accordance with the prophetic descriptions of Isaiah and David, were Pope Gregory on his knees, his hands clasped, a grave Cardinal, whose hands were hidden under his robe, and a rough-looking Bishop, standing, in a dark green cloak embroidered with gold; he held a cross.
It was enigmatical and it was sinister, but those austere and commanding faces were alive.

There was a stamp of faith, indomitable and resolute, in those countenances.

It was harsh to the palate, the roughest wine of mysticism; but at least it was not the mawkish syrup of the early Cologne painters.
"Ah! that mystical breath by which the soul of the artist becomes incorporate in the colour on a canvas, in the lines of carved stone, in written words, and speaks to the souls of those who can understand! How few have had it!" thought Durtal, closing his notes of travel.