and the dark-browed Exarch bowing to the pavement, beside
the paid murderer whose hand is already on his dagger's hilt. 'O Lamb of
God, that takest away the sins of the world,' sings the choir in its
sad, high chant, and Saint Martin bows, standing, over the altar,
himself communicating, while the Exarch holds his breath, and the slayer
fixes his small, keen eyes on the embroidered vestments and guesses how
they will look with a red splash upon them.

As the soldier looks, the sunlight falls more brightly on the gold, the
incense curls in mystic spiral wreaths, its strong perfume penetrates
and dims his senses; little by little, his thoughts wander till they are
strangely fixed on something far away, and he no longer sees Pope nor
altar nor altar-piece beyond, and is wrapped in a sort of waking sleep
that is blindness. Olympius kneels at the steps within the rail, and his
heart beats loud as the grand figure of the Bishop bends over him, and
the thin old hand with its strong blue veins offers the sacred bread to
his open lips. He trembles, and tries to glance sideways to his left
with downcast eyes, for the moment has come, and the blow must be struck
then or never. Not a breath, not a movement in the church, not the
faintest clink of all those gilded arms, as the Saint pronounces the few
solemn words, then gravely and slowly turns, with his deacons to right
and left of him, and ascends the altar steps once more, unhurt. A
miracle, says the chronicler. A miracle, says the amazed soldier, and
repeats it upon solemn oath. A miracle, says Olympius himself, penitent
and converted from error, and ready to save the Pope by all means he
has, as he was ready to slay him before. But he only, and the hired
assassin beside him, had known what was to be, and the people say that
the Exarch and the Pope were already reconciled and agreed against the
Emperor.

The vast church has had many names. It seems at one time to have been
known as the Basilica of Sicininus, for so Ammianus Marcellinus still
speaks of it. But just before that, there is the lovely legend of Pope
Liberius' dream. To him and to the Roman patrician, John, came the
Blessed Virgin in a dream, one night in high summer, commanding them to
build her a church wheresoever they should find snow on the morrow. And
together they found it, glistening in the morning sun, and they traced,
on the white, the plan of the foundation, and together built the first
church, calling it