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 wellsprings 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
