We have thus the exact arrangements to be found in the churches built after the peace, and yet to be seen in all the ancient basilicas in Rome--the episcopal chair in the centre of the apse, the presbytery or seat for the clergy on either hand, and the altar between the throne and the people. The early Christians thus anticipated underground, or rather gave the principles which directed, the forms of ecclesiastical architecture. It was in such a basilica, then, that we are to imagine the faithful assembled, when Corvinus and his satellites arrived at the entrance of the cemetery. This was the way which Torquatus knew, leading down by steps from a half-ruinous building, choked up with faggots. They found the coast clear, and immediately made their arrangements. Fulvius, with one body of ten or twelve men, lurked to guard the entrance, and seize all who attempted to come out or go in. Corvinus, with Torquatus and a smaller body of eight, prepared to descend. “I don’t like this underground work,” said an old, grey-bearded legionary. “I am a soldier, and not a rat-catcher. Bring me my man into the light of day, and I will fight him hand to hand, and foot to foot; but I have no love for being stifled or poisoned, like vermin in a drain.” This speech found favor with the soldiers. One said, “There may be hundreds of these skulking Christians down there, and we are little more than half a dozen.” “This is not the sort of work we receive our pay for,” added another. “It’s their sorceries I care for,” continued a third, “and not their valor.” It required all the eloquence of Fulvius to screw up their resolution. He assured them there was nothing to fear; that the cowardly Christians would run before them like hares, and that they would find more gold and silver in the church than a year’s pay would give them. Thus encouraged, they went groping down to the bottom of the stairs. They could distinguish lamps at intervals, stretching into the gloomy length before them. “Hush!” said one, “listen to that voice!” [Illustration: An Altar with its Episcopal Chair, in the Cemetery of Saint Agnes.] From far away its accents came, softened by distance, but they were the notes of a fresh youthful voice, that quailed not with fear; so clear, that the very words could be caught, as it intoned the following verses: “Dominus illuminatio mea, et salus mea; quem timebo? [Illustration: An Attack in the Catacombs.] “Dominus protector vitæ meæ; a quo trepidabo?”[149] Then came a full chorus of voices, singing, like the sound of many waters: “Dum appropriant super me nocentes, ut edant carnes meas; qui tribulant me, inimici mei, ipsi infirmati sunt et ceciderunt.”[150] A mixture of shame and anger seized on the assailants as they heard these words of calm confidence and defiance. The single voice again sang forth, but in apparently fainter accents: “Si consistant adversum me castra, non timebit cor meum.”[151]