spiritless, and the traces of tears were still about his eyelids; but the words: "to be shot," did not seem to affect him much. When they were uttered, the pupils of his eyes dilated, but that was all. "Take him back to his cell," the Governor said. when all the formalities were over; and the sergeant, who was evidently near to breaking down, touched the motionless figure on the shoulder. The Gadfly looked round him with a little start. "Ah, yes!" he said. "I forgot." There was something almost like pity in the Governor's face. He was not a cruel man by nature, and was secretly a little ashamed of the part he had been playing during the last month. Now that his main point was gained he was willing to make every little concession in his power. "You needn't put the irons on again," he said, glancing at the bruised and swollen wrists. "And he can stay in his own cell. The condemned cell is wretchedly dark and gloomy," he added, turning to his nephew; "and really the thing's a mere formality." He coughed and shifted his feet in evident embarrassment; then called back the sergeant, who was leaving the room with his prisoner. "Wait, sergeant; I want to speak to him." The Gadfly did not move, and the Governor's voice seemed to fall on unresponsive ears. "If you have any message you would like conveyed to your friends or relatives---- You have relatives, I suppose?" There was no answer. "Well, think it over and tell me, or the priest. I will see it is not neglected. You had better give your messages to the priest; he shall come at once, and stay the night with you. If there is any other wish----" The Gadfly looked up. "Tell the priest I would rather be alone. I have no friends and no messages." "But you will want to confess." "I am an atheist. I want nothing but to be left in peace." He said it in a dull, quiet voice, without defiance or irritation; and turned slowly away. At the door he stopped again. "I forgot, colonel; there is a favour I wanted to ask. Don't let them tie me or bandage my eyes to-morrow, please. I will stand quite still." . . . . . At sunrise on Wednesday morning they brought him out into the courtyard. His lameness was more than usually apparent, and he walked with evident difficulty and pain, leaning heavily on the sergeant's arm; but all the weary submission had gone out of his face. The spectral terrors that had crushed him down in the empty silence, the visions and dreams of the world of shadows, were gone with the night which gave them birth; and once the sun was shining and his enemies were present to rouse the fighting spirit in him, he was not afraid. The six carabineers who had been told off for the execution were drawn up in line against the ivied wall; the same crannied and crumbling wall down which he had climbed on the night of his unlucky attempt. They could hardly refrain from weeping as they stood together, each man with his carbine in his hand. It seemed to them a horror beyond imagination that they should be called out to kill the Gadfly. He and his stinging repartees, his perpetual laughter, his bright, infectious courage, had come into their dull and dreary lives like a wandering sunbeam; and that he should die, and at their hands, was to them as the darkening of the clear lamps of heaven. Under the great fig-tree in the courtyard, his grave was waiting for him. It had been dug in the night by unwilling hands; and tears had fallen on the spade. As he passed he looked down, smiling, at the black pit and the withering grass beside it; and drew a long breath, to smell the scent of the freshly turned earth. Near the tree the sergeant stopped short, and the Gadfly looked round with his brightest smile. "Shall I stand here, sergeant?" The man nodded silently; there was a lump in his throat, and he could not have spoken to save his life. The Governor, his nephew, the lieutenant of carabineers who was to command, a doctor and a priest were already in the courtyard, and came forward with grave faces, half abashed under the radiant defiance of the Gadfly's laughing eyes. "G-good morning, gentlemen! Ah, and his reverence is up so early, too! How do you do, captain? This is a pleasanter occasion for you than our former meeting, isn't it? I see your arm is still in a sling; that's because I bungled my work. These good fellows will do theirs better-- won't you, lads?" He glanced round at the gloomy faces of the carabineers. "There'll be no need of slings this time, any way. There, there, you needn't look so doleful over it! Put your heels together and show how straight you can shoot. Before long there'll be more work cut out for you than you'll know how to get through, and there's nothing like practice beforehand." "My son," the priest interrupted, coming forward, while the others drew back to leave them alone together; "in a few minutes you must enter into the presence of your Maker. Have you no other use but this for these last moments that are left you for repentance? Think, I entreat you, how dreadful a thing it is to die without absolution, with all your sins upon your head. When you stand before your Judge it will be too late to repent. Will you approach His awful throne with a jest upon your lips?" "A jest, your reverence? It is your side that needs that little homily, I think. When our turn comes we shall use field-guns instead of half a dozen second-hand carbines, and then you'll see how much we're in jest." "YOU will use field-guns! Oh, unhappy man! Have you still not realized on what frightful brink you stand?" The Gadfly glanced back over his shoulder at the open grave. "And s-s-so your reverence thinks that, when you have put me down there, you will have done with me? Perhaps you will lay a stone on the top to pre-v-vent a r-resurrection 'after three days'? No fear, your reverence! I shan't poach on the monopoly in cheap theatricals; I shall lie as still as a m-mouse, just where you put me. And all the same, WE shall use field-guns." "Oh, merciful God," the priest cried out; "forgive this wretched man!" "Amen!" murmured the lieutenant of carabineers, in a deep bass growl, while the colonel and his nephew crossed themselves devoutly. As there was evidently no hope of further insistence producing any effect, the priest gave up the fruitless attempt and moved aside, shaking his head and murmuring a prayer. The short and simple preparations were made without more delay, and the Gadfly placed himself in the required position, only turning his head to glance up for a moment at the red and yellow splendour of the sunrise. He had repeated the request that his eyes might not be bandaged, and his defiant face had wrung from the colonel a reluctant consent. They had both forgotten what they were inflicting on the soldiers. He stood and faced them, smiling, and the carbines shook in their hands. "I am quite ready," he said. The lieutenant stepped forward, trembling a little with excitement. He had never given the word of command for an execution before. "Ready--present--fire!" The Gadfly staggered a little and recovered his balance. One unsteady shot had grazed his cheek, and a little blood fell on to the white cravat. Another ball had struck him above the knee. When the smoke cleared away the soldiers looked and saw him smiling still and wiping the blood from his cheek with the mutilated hand "A bad shot, men!" he said; and his voice cut in, clear and articulate, upon the dazed stupor of the wretched soldiers. "Have another try." A general groan and shudder passed through the row of carabineers. Each man had aimed aside, with a secret hope that the death-shot would come from his neighbour's hand, not his; and there the Gadfly stood and smiled at them; they had only turned the execution into a butchery, and the whole ghastly business was to do again. They were seized with sudden terror, and, lowering their carbines, listened hopelessly to the furious curses and reproaches of the officers, staring in dull horror at the man whom they had killed and who somehow was not dead. The Governor shook his fist in their faces, savagely shouting to them to stand in position, to present arms, to make haste and get the thing over. He had become as thoroughly demoralized as they were, and dared not look at the terrible figure that stood, and stood, and would not fall. When the Gadfly spoke to him he started and shuddered at the sound of the mocking voice. "You have brought out the awkward squad this morning, colonel! Let me see if I can manage them better. Now, men! Hold your tool higher there, you to the left. Bless your heart, man, it's a carbine you've got in your hand, not a frying-pan! Are you all straight? Now then! Ready--present----" "Fire!" the colonel interrupted, starting forward. It was intolerable that this man should give the command for his own death. There was another confused, disorganized volley, and the line broke up into a knot of shivering figures, staring before them with wild eyes. One of the soldiers had not even discharged his carbine; he had flung it away, and crouched down, moaning under his breath: "I can't--I can't!" The smoke cleared slowly away, floating up into the glimmer of the early sunlight; and they saw that the Gadfly had fallen; and saw, too, that he was still not dead. For the first moment soldiers and officials stood as if they had been turned to stone, and watched the ghastly thing that writhed and struggled on the ground; then both doctor and colonel rushed forward with a cry, for he had dragged himself up on one knee and was still facing the soldiers, and still laughing. "Another miss! Try--again, lads--see--if you can't----" He suddenly swayed and fell over sideways on the grass. "Is he dead?" the colonel asked under his breath; and the doctor, kneeling down, with a hand on the bloody shirt, answered softly: "I think so--God be praised!" "God be praised!" the colonel repeated. "At last!" His nephew was touching him on the arm. "Uncle! It's the Cardinal! He's at the gate and wants to come in." "What? He can't come in--I won't have it! What are the guards about? Your Eminence----" The gate had opened and shut, and Montanelli was standing in the courtyard, looking before him with still and awful eyes. "Your Eminence! I must beg of you--this is not a fit sight for you! The execution is only just over; the body is not yet----" "I have come to look at him," Montanelli said. Even at the moment it struck the Governor that his voice and bearing were those of a sleep-walker. "Oh, my God!" one of the soldiers cried out suddenly; and the Governor glanced hastily back. Surely------ The blood-stained heap on the grass had once more begun to struggle and moan. The doctor flung himself down and lifted the head upon his knee. "Make haste!" he cried in desperation. "You savages, make haste! Get it over, for God's sake! There's no bearing this!" Great jets of blood poured over his hands, and the convulsions of the figure that he held in his arms shook him, too, from head to foot. As he looked frantically round for help, the priest bent over his shoulder and put a crucifix to the lips of the dying man. "In the name of the Father and of the Son----" The Gadfly raised himself against the doctor's knee, and, with wide-open eyes, looked straight upon the crucifix. Slowly, amid hushed and frozen stillness, he lifted the broken right hand and pushed away the image. There was a red smear across its face. "Padre--is your--God--satisfied?" His head fell back on the doctor's arm. . . . . . "Your Eminence!" As the Cardinal did not awake from his stupor, Colonel Ferrari repeated, louder: "Your Eminence!" Montanelli looked up. "He is dead." "Quite dead, your Eminence. Will you not come away? This is a horrible sight." "He is dead," Montanelli repeated, and looked down again at the face. "I touched him; and he is dead." "What does he expect a man to be with half a dozen bullets in him?" the lieutenant whispered contemptuously; and the doctor whispered back. "I think the sight of the blood has upset him." The Governor put his hand firmly on Montanelli's arm. "Your Eminence--you had better not look at him any longer. Will you allow the chaplain to escort you home?" "Yes--I will go." He turned slowly from the blood-stained spot and walked away, the priest and sergeant following. At the gate he paused and looked back, with a ghostlike, still surprise. "He is dead." . . . . . A few hours later Marcone went up to a cottage on the hillside to tell Martini that there was no longer any need for him to throw away his life. All the preparations for a second attempt at rescue were ready, as the plot was much more simple than the former one. It had been arranged that on the following morning, as the Corpus Domini procession passed along the fortress hill, Martini should step forward out of the crowd, draw a pistol from his breast, and fire in the Governor's face. In the moment of wild confusion which would follow twenty armed men were to make a sudden rush at the gate, break into the tower, and, taking the turnkey with them by force, to enter the prisoner's cell and carry him bodily away, killing or overpowering everyone who interfered with them. From the gate they were to retire fighting, and cover the retreat of a second band of armed and mounted smugglers, who would carry him off into a safe hiding-place in the hills. The only person in the little group who knew nothing of the plan was Gemma; it had been kept from her at Martini's special desire. "She will break her heart over it soon enough," he had said. As the smuggler came in at the garden gate Martini opened the glass door and stepped out on to the verandah to meet him. "Any news, Marcone? Ah!" The smuggler had pushed back his broad-brimmed straw hat. They sat down together on the verandah. Not a word was spoken on either side. From the instant when Martini had caught sight of the face under the hat-brim he had understood. "When was it?" he asked after a long pause; and his own voice, in his ears, was as dull and wearisome as everything else. "This morning, at sunrise. The sergeant told me. He was there and saw it." Martini looked down and flicked a stray thread from his coat-sleeve. Vanity of vanities; this also is vanity. He was to have died to-morrow. And now the land of his heart's desire had vanished, like the fairyland of golden sunset dreams that fades away when the darkness comes; and he was driven back into the world of every day and every night--the world of Grassini and Galli, of ciphering and pamphleteering, of party squabbles between comrades and dreary intrigues among Austrian spies--of the old revolutionary mill-round that maketh the heart sick. And somewhere down at the bottom of his consciousness there was a great empty place; a place that nothing and no one would fill any more, now that the Gadfly was dead. Someone was asking him a question, and he raised his head, wondering what could be left that was worth the trouble of talking about. "What did you say?" "I was saying that of course you will break the news to her." Life, and all the horror of life, came back into Martini's face. "How can I tell her?" he cried out. "You might as well ask me to go and stab her. Oh, how can I tell her--how can I!" He had clasped both hands over his eyes; but, without seeing, he felt the smuggler start beside him, and looked up. Gemma was standing in the doorway. "Have you heard, Cesare?" she said. "It is all over. They have shot him."PART III: CHAPTER VIII. "INTROIBO ad altare Dei." Montanelli stood before the high altar among his ministers and acolytes and read the Introit aloud in steady tones. All the Cathedral was a blaze of light and colour; from the holiday dresses of the congregation to the pillars with their flaming draperies and wreaths of flowers there was no dull spot in it. Over the open spaces of the doorway fell great scarlet curtains, through whose folds the hot June sunlight glowed, as through the petals of red poppies in a corn-field. The religious orders with their candles and torches, the companies of the parishes with their crosses and flags, lighted up the dim side-chapels; and in the aisles the silken folds of the processional banners drooped, their gilded staves and tassels glinting under the arches. The surplices of the choristers gleamed, rainbow-tinted, beneath the coloured windows; the sunlight lay on the chancel floor in chequered stains of orange and purple and green. Behind the altar hung a shimmering veil of silver tissue; and against the veil and the decorations and the altar-lights the Cardinal's figure stood out in its trailing white robes like a marble statue that had come to life. As was customary on processional days, he was only to preside at the Mass, not to celebrate, so at the end of the Indulgentiam he turned from the altar and walked slowly to the episcopal throne, celebrant and ministers bowing low as he passed. "I'm afraid His Eminence is not well," one of the canons whispered to his neighbour; "he seems so strange." Montanelli bent his head to receive the jewelled mitre. The priest who was acting as deacon of honour put it on, looked at him for an instant, then leaned forward and whispered softly: "Your Eminence, are you ill?" Montanelli turned slightly towards him. There was no recognition in his eyes. "Pardon, Your Eminence!" the priest whispered, as he made a genuflexion and went back to his place, reproaching himself for having interrupted the Cardinal's devotions. The familiar ceremony went on; and Montanelli sat erect and still, his glittering mitre and gold-brocaded vestments flashing back the sunlight, and the heavy folds of his white festival mantle sweeping down over the red carpet. The light of a hundred candles sparkled among the sapphires on his breast, and shone into the deep, still eyes that had no answering gleam; and when, at the words: "Benedicite, pater eminentissime," he stooped to bless the incense, and the sunbeams played among the diamonds, he might have recalled some splendid and fearful ice-spirit of the mountains, crowned with rainbows and robed in drifted snow, scattering, with extended hands, a shower of blessings or of curses. At the elevation of the Host he descended from his throne and knelt before the altar. There was a strange, still evenness about all his movements; and as he rose and went back to his place the major of dragoons, who was sitting in gala uniform behind the Governor, whispered to the wounded captain: "The old Cardinal's breaking, not a doubt of it. He goes through his work like a machine." "So much the better!" the captain whispered back. "He's been nothing but a mill-stone round all our necks ever since that confounded amnesty." "He did give in, though, about the court-martial." "Yes, at last; but he was a precious time making up his mind to. Heavens, how close it is! We shall all get sun-stroke in the procession. It's a pity we're not Cardinals, to have a canopy held over our heads all the way---- Sh-sh-sh! There's my uncle looking at us!" Colonel Ferrari had turned round to glance severely at the two younger officers. After the solemn event of yesterday morning he was in a devout and serious frame of mind, and inclined to reproach them with a want of proper feeling about what he regarded as "a painful necessity of state." The masters of the ceremonies began to assemble and place in order those who were to take part in the procession. Colonel Ferrari rose from his place and moved up to the chancel-rail, beckoning to the other officers to accompany him. When the Mass was finished, and the Host had been placed behind the crystal shield in the processional sun, the celebrant and his ministers retired to the sacristy to change their vestments, and a little buzz of whispered conversation broke out through the church. Montanelli remained seated on his throne, looking straight before him, immovably. All the sea of human life and motion seemed to surge around and below him, and to die away into stillness about his feet. A censer was brought to him; and he raised his hand with the action of an automaton, and put the incense into the vessel, looking neither to the right nor to the left. The clergy had come back from the sacristy, and were waiting in the chancel for him to descend; but he remained utterly motionless. The deacon of honour, bending forward to take off the mitre, whispered again, hesitatingly: "Your Eminence!" The Cardinal looked round. "What did you say?" "Are you quite sure the procession will not be too much for you? The sun is very hot." "What does the sun matter?" Montanelli spoke in a cold, measured voice, and the priest again fancied that he must have given offence. "Forgive me, Your Eminence. I thought you seemed unwell." Montanelli rose without answering. He paused a moment on the upper step of the throne, and asked in the same measured way: "What is that?" The long train of his mantle swept down over the steps and lay spread out on the chancel-floor, and he was pointing to a fiery stain on the white satin. "It's only the sunlight shining through a coloured window, Your Eminence." "The sunlight? Is it so red?" He descended the steps, and knelt before the altar, swinging the censer slowly to and fro. As he handed it back, the chequered sunlight fell on his bared head and wide, uplifted eyes, and cast a crimson glow across the white veil that his ministers were folding round him. He took from the deacon the sacred golden sun; and stood up, as choir and organ burst into a peal of triumphal melody. "Pange, lingua, g]oriosi Corporis mysterium, Sanguinisque pretiosi Quem in mundi pretium, Fructus ventris generosi Rex effudit gentium." The bearers came slowly forward, and raised the silken canopy over his head, while the deacons of honour stepped to their places at his right and left and drew back the long folds of the mantle. As the acolytes stooped to lift his robe from the chancel-floor, the lay fraternities heading the procession started to pace down the nave in stately double file, with lighted candles held to left and right. He stood above them, by the altar, motionless under the white canopy, holding the Eucharist aloft with steady hands, and watched them as they passed. Two by two, with candles and banners and torches, with crosses and images and flags, they swept slowly down the chancel steps, along the broad nave between the garlanded pillars, and out under the lifted scarlet curtains into the blazing sunlight of the street; and the sound of their chanting died into a rolling murmur, drowned in the pealing of new and newer voices, as the unending stream flowed on, and yet new footsteps echoed down the nave. The companies of the parishes passed, with their white shrouds and veiled faces; then the brothers of the Misericordia, black from head to foot, their eyes faintly gleaming through the holes in their masks. Next came the monks in solemn row: the mendicant friars, with their dusky cowls and bare, brown feet; the white-robed, grave Dominicans. Then followed the lay officials of the district; dragoons and carabineers and the local police-officials; the Governor in gala uniform, with his brother officers beside him. A deacon followed, holding up a great cross between two acolytes with gleaming candles; and as the curtains were lifted high to let them pass out at the doorway, Montanelli caught a momentary glimpse, from where he stood under the canopy, of the sunlit blaze of carpeted street and flag-hung walls and white-robed children scattering roses. Ah, the roses; how red they were! On and on the procession paced in order; form succeeding to form and colour to colour. Long white surplices, grave and seemly, gave place to gorgeous vestments and embroidered pluvials. Now passed a tall and slender golden cross, borne high above the lighted candles; now the cathedral canons, stately in their dead white mantles. A chaplain paced down the chancel, with the crozier between two flaring torches; then the acolytes moved forward in step, their censers swinging to the rhythm of the music; the bearers raised the canopy higher, counting their steps: "One, two; one, two!" and Montanelli started upon the Way of the Cross. Down the chancel steps and all along the nave he passed; under the gallery where the organ pealed and thundered; under the lifted curtains that were so red--so fearfully red; and out into the glaring street, where the blood-red roses lay and withered, crushed into the red carpet by the passing of many feet. A moment's pause at the door, while the lay officials came forward to replace the canopy-bearers; then the procession moved on again, and he with it, his hands clasping the Eucharistic sun, and the voices of the choristers swelling and dying around him, with the rhythmical swaying of censers and the rolling tramp of feet. "Verbum caro, panem verum, Verbo carnem efficit; Sitque sanguis Christi merum----" Always blood and always blood! The carpet stretched before him like a red river; the roses lay like blood splashed on the stones---- Oh, God! Is all Thine earth grown red, and all Thy heaven? Ah, what is it to Thee, Thou mighty God---- Thou, whose very lips are smeared with blood! "Tantum ergo Sacramentum, Veneremur cernui."He looked through the crystal shield at the Eucharist. What was that oozing from the wafer-- dripping down between the points of the golden sun--down on to his white robe? What had he seen dripping down--dripping from a lifted hand? The grass in the courtyard was trampled and red,--all red,--there was so much blood. It was trickling down the cheek, and dripping from the pierced right hand, and gushing in a hot red torrent from the wounded side. Even a lock of the hair was dabbled in it,--the hair that lay all wet and matted on the forehead--ah, that was the death-sweat; it came from the horrible pain. The voices of the choristers rose higher, triumphantly: "Genitori, genitoque, Laus et jubilatio, Salus, honor, virtus quoque, Sit et benedictio." Oh, that is more than any patience can endure! God, Who sittest on the brazen heavens enthroned, and smilest with bloody lips, looking down upon agony and death, is it not enough? Is it not enough, without this mockery of praise and blessing? Body of Christ, Thou that wast broken for the salvation of men; blood of Christ, Thou that wast shed for the remission of sins; is it not enough? "Ah, call Him louder; perchance He sleepeth! Dost Thou sleep indeed, dear love; and wilt Thou never wake again? Is the grave so jealous of its victory; and will the black pit under the tree not loose Thee even for a little, heart's delight? Then the Thing behind the crystal shield made answer, and the blood dripped down as It spoke: "Hast thou chosen, and wilt repent of thy choice? Is thy desire not fulfilled? Look upon these men that walk in the light and are clad in silk and in gold: for their sake was I laid in the black pit. Look upon the children scattering roses, and hearken to their singing if it be sweet: for their sake is my mouth filled with dust, and the roses are red from the well-springs of my heart. See where the people kneel to drink the blood that drips from thy garment-hem: for their sake was it shed, to quench their ravening thirst. For it is written: 'Greater love hath no man than this, if a man lay down his life for his friends.'" "Oh, Arthur, Arthur; there is greater love than this! If a man lay down the life of his best beloved, is not that greater?" And It answered again: "Who is thy best beloved? In sooth, not I." And when he would have spoken the words froze on his tongue, for the singing of the choristers passed over them, as the north wind over icy pools, and hushed them into silence: "Dedit fragilibus corporis ferculum, Dedit et tristibus sanguinis poculum, Dicens: Accipite, quod trado vasculum Omnes ex eo bibite." Drink of it, Christians; drink of it, all of you! Is it not yours? For you the red stream stains the grass; for you the living flesh is seared and torn. Eat of it, cannibals; eat of it, all of you! This is your feast and your orgy; this is the day of your joy! Haste you and come to the festival; join the procession and march with us; women and children, young men and old men--come to the sharing of flesh! Come to the pouring of blood-wine and drink of it while it is red; take and eat of the Body---- Ah, God; the fortress! Sullen and brown, with crumbling battlements and towers dark among the barren hills, it scowled on the procession sweeping past in the dusty road below. The iron teeth of the portcullis were drawn down over the mouth of the gate; and as a beast crouched on the mountain-side, the fortress guarded its prey. Yet, be the teeth clenched never so fast, they shall be broken and riven asunder; and the grave in the courtyard within shall yield up her dead. For the Christian hosts are marching, marching in mighty procession to their sacramental feast of blood, as marches an army of famished rats to the gleaning; and their cry is: "Give! Give!" and they say not: "It is enough." "Wilt thou not be satisfied? For these men was I sacrificed; thou hast destroyed me that they might live; and behold, they march everyone on his ways, and they shall not break their ranks. "This is the army of Christians, the followers of thy God; a great people and a strong. A fire devoureth before them, and behind them a flame burneth; the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them." "Oh, yet come back, come back to me, beloved; for I repent me of my choice! Come back, and we will creep away together, to some dark and silent grave where the devouring army shall not find us; and we will lay us down there, locked in one another's arms, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep. And the hungry Christians shall pass by in the merciless daylight above our heads; and when they howl for blood to drink and for flesh to eat, their cry shall be faint in our ears; and they shall pass on their ways and leave us to our rest." And It answered yet again: "Where shall I hide me? Is it not written: 'They shall run to and fro in the city; they shall run upon the wall; they shall climb up upon the houses; they shall enter in at the windows like a thief?' If I build me a tomb on the mountain-top, shall they not break it open? If I dig me a grave in the river-bed, shall they not tear it up? Verily, they are keen as blood-hounds to seek out their prey; and for them are my wounds red, that they may drink. Canst thou not hear them, what they sing?" And they sang, as they went in between the scarlet curtains of the Cathedral door; for the procession was over, and all the roses were strewn: "Ave, verum Corpus, natum De Maria Virgine: Vere passum, immolatum In cruce pro homine! Cujus latus perforatum Undam fluxit cum sanguinae; Esto nobis praegustatum Mortis in examinae." And when they had left off singing, he entered at the doorway, and passed between the silent rows of monks and priests, where they knelt, each man in his place, with the lighted candles uplifted. And he saw their hungry eyes fixed on the sacred Body that he bore; and he knew why they bowed their heads as he passed. For the dark stream ran down the folds of his white vestments; and on the stones of the Cathedral floor his footsteps left a deep, red stain. So he passed up the nave to the chancel rails; and there the bearers paused, and he went out from under the canopy and up to the altar steps. To left and right the white-robed acolytes knelt with their censers and the chaplains with their torches; and their eyes shone greedily in the flaring light as they watched the Body of the Victim. And as he stood before the altar, holding aloft with blood-stained hands the torn and mangled body of his murdered love, the voices of the guests bidden to the Eucharistic feast rang out in another peal of song: "Oh salutaris Hostia, Quae coeli pandis ostium; Bella praemunt hostilia, Da robur, fer, auxilium!" Ah, and now they come to take the Body---- Go then, dear heart, to thy bitter doom, and open the gates of heaven for these ravening wolves that will not be denied. The gates that are opened for me are the gates of the nethermost hell. And as the deacon of honour placed the sacred vessel on the altar, Montanelli sank down where he had stood, and knelt upon the step; and from the white altar above him the blood flowed down and dripped upon his head. And the voices of the singers rang on, pealing under the arches and echoing along the vaulted roof: "Uni trinoque Domino Sit sempiterna gloria: Qui vitam sine termino Nobis donet in patria." "Sine termino--sine termino!" Oh, happy Jesus, Who could sink beneath His cross! Oh, happy Jesus, Who could say: "It is finished!" This doom is never ended; it is eternal as the stars in their courses. This is the worm that dieth not and the fire that is not quenched. "Sine termino, sine termino!" Wearily, patiently, he went through his part in the remaining ceremonies, fulfilling mechanically, from old habit, the rites that had no longer any meaning for him. Then, after the benediction, he knelt down again before the altar and covered his face; and the voice of the priest reading aloud the list of indulgences swelled and sank like a far-off murmur from a world to which he belonged no more. The voice broke off, and he stood up and stretched out his hand for silence. Some of the congregation were moving towards the doors; and they turned back with a hurried rustle and murmur, as a whisper went through the Cathedral: "His Eminence is going to speak." His ministers, startled and wondering, drew closer to him and one of them whispered hastily: "Your Eminence, do you intend to speak to the people now?" Montanelli silently waved him aside. The priests drew back, whispering together; the thing was unusual, even irregular; but it was within the Cardinal's prerogative if he chose to do it. No doubt, he had some statement of exceptional importance to make; some new reform from Rome to announce or a special communication from the Holy Father. Montanelli looked down from the altar-steps upon the sea of upturned faces. Full of eager expectancy they looked up at him as he stood above them, spectral and still and white. "Sh-sh! Silence!" the leaders of the procession called softly; and the murmuring of the congregation died into stillness, as a gust of wind dies among whispering tree-tops. All the crowd gazed up, in breathless silence, at the white figure on the altar-steps. Slowly and steadily he began to speak: "It is written in the Gospel according to St. John: 'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son that the world through Him might be saved.' "This is the festival of the Body and Blood of the Victim who was slain for your salvation; the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world; the Son of God, Who died for your transgressions. And you are assembled here in solemn festival array, to eat of the sacrifice that was given for you, and to render thanks for this great mercy. And I know that this morning, when you came to share in the banquet, to eat of the Body of the Victim, your hearts were filled with joy, as you remembered the Passion of God the Son, Who died, that you might be saved. "But tell me, which among you has thought of that other Passion--of the Passion of God the Father, Who gave His Son to be crucified? Which of you has remembered the agony of God the Father, when He bent from His throne in the heavens above, and looked down upon Calvary? "I have watched you to-day, my people, as you walked in your ranks in solemn procession; and I have seen that your hearts are glad within you for the remission of your sins, and that you rejoice in your salvation. Yet I pray you that you consider at what price that salvation was bought. Surely it is very precious, and the price of it is above rubies; it is the price of blood." A faint, long shudder passed through the listening crowd. In the chancel the priests bent forward and whispered to one another; but the preacher went on speaking, and they held their peace. "Therefore it is that I speak with you this day: I AM THAT I AM. For I looked upon your weakness and your sorrow, and upon the little children about your feet; and my heart was moved to compassion for their sake, that they must die. Then I looked into my dear son's eyes; and I knew that the Atonement of Blood was there. And I went my way, and left him to his doom. "This is the remission of sins. He died for you, and the darkness has swallowed him up; he is dead, and there is no resurrection; he is dead, and I have no son. Oh, my boy, my boy!" The Cardinal's voice broke in a long, wailing cry; and the voices of the terrified people answered it like an echo. All the clergy had risen from their places, and the deacons of honour started forward to lay their hands on the preacher's arm. But he wrenched it away, and faced them suddenly, with the eyes of an angry wild beast. "What is this? Is there not blood enough? Wait your turn, jackals; you shall all be fed!" They shrank away and huddled shivering together, their panting breath thick and loud, their faces white with the whiteness of chalk. Montanelli turned again to the people, and they swayed and shook before him, as a field of corn before a hurricane. "You have killed him! You have killed him! And I suffered it, because I would not let you die. And now, when you come about me with your lying praises and your unclean prayers, I repent me--I repent me that I have done this thing! It were better that you all should rot in your vices, in the bottomless filth of damnation, and that he should live. What is the worth of your plague-spotted souls, that such a price should be paid for them? But it is too late--too late! I cry aloud, but he does not hear me; I beat at the door of the grave, but he will not wake; I stand alone, in desert space, and look around me, from the blood-stained earth where the heart of my heart lies buried, to the void and awful heaven that is left unto me, desolate. I have given him up; oh, generation of vipers, I have given him up for you! "Take your salvation, since it is yours! I fling it to you as a bone is flung to a pack of snarling curs! The price of your banquet is paid for you; come, then, and gorge yourselves, cannibals, bloodsuckers--carrion beasts that feed on the dead! See where the blood streams down from the altar, foaming and hot from my darling's heart--the blood that was shed for you! Wallow and lap it and smear yourselves red with it! Snatch and fight for the flesh and devour it--and trouble me no more! This is the body that was given for you--look at it, torn and bleeding, throbbing still with the tortured life, quivering from the bitter death-agony; take it, Christians,