For the first time in his life he saw that of which he had heard so often, the wonderful old-world Pontifical procession, lit by torches, going through the streets from the Lateran to St.Anastasia, where the Pope for the last few years had restored the ancient custom discontinued for nearly a century-and-a-half.

The little basilica was reserved, of course, in every corner for the peculiarly privileged; but the streets outside along the whole route from the Cathedral to the church--and, indeed, the other two sides of the triangle as well, were one dense mass of silent heads and flaming torches.

The Holy Father was attended at the altar by the usual sovereigns; and Percy from his place watched the heavenly drama of Christ's Passion enacted through the veil of His nativity at the hands of His old Angelic Vicar.

It was hard to perceive Calvary here; it was surely the air of Bethlehem, the celestial light, not the supernatural darkness, that beamed round the simple altar.

It was the Child called Wonderful that lay there beneath the old hands, rather than the stricken Man of Sorrows.
_Adeste fideles_ sang the choir from the tribune .-- Come, let us adore, rather than weep; let us exult, be content, be ourselves like little children.