The light increased; it was like a dawn glowing into day; it entered the gallery and passed across it, bearing in it, as in a mirror, a vision too distinct to be unreal. First, there came virgins robed and holding lamps; then four who carried between them a form wrapped up in a white linen cloth, with a crown of thorns upon the head; after them the youthful acolyte Tarcisius bearing a censer steaming with perfumed smoke; and, after others of the clergy, the venerable Pontiff himself, attended by Reparatus, and another deacon. Diogenes and his sons, with sorrowful countenances, and many others, among whom he could distinguish Sebastian, closed the procession. As many bore lamps or tapers, the figures seemed to move in an unchanging atmosphere of mildest light. And as they passed before him, they chanted the next verse of the psalm: “Quoniam Tu Domine singulariter in spe constituisti me.”[157] “_That_,” he exclaimed, rousing himself up, “_that_ is for me.” With this thought he had sprung upon his knees; and by an instinct of grace words which he had before heard came back to him like an echo; words suited to the moment; words which he felt that he _must_ speak. He crept forward, faint and feeble, turned along the gallery through which the funeral procession was passing, and followed it, unobserved, at a distance. It entered a chamber and lighted it up, so that a picture [Illustration: The Martyr’s Burial.] of the Good Shepherd looked brightly down on him. But he would not pass the threshold, where he stood striking his breast and praying for mercy. The body had been laid upon the ground, and other psalms and hymns were sung, and prayers recited, all in that cheerful tone and joyous mood of hopefulness, with which the Church has always treated of death. At length it was placed in the tomb prepared for it, under an arch. While this was being done, Torquatus drew nigh to one of the spectators, and whispered to him the question: “Whose funeral is this?” “It is the _deposition_,” he answered, “of the blessed Cæcilia, a blind virgin, who this morning fell into the hands of the soldiers, in this cemetery, and whose soul God took to Himself.” “Then I am her murderer,” he exclaimed, with a hollow moan; and staggering forward to the holy bishop’s feet, fell prostrate before him. It was some time before his feelings could find vent in words; when these came, they were the ones he had resolved to utter: “Father, I have sinned before heaven, and against Thee, and I am not worthy to be called Thy child.” The Pontiff raised him up kindly, and pressed him to his bosom, saying, “Welcome back, my son, whoever thou art, to thy Father’s house. But thou art weak and faint, and needest rest.”