But one almost doubts whether the Pontiff himself appreciated the magnitude of the task he had undertaken. In person he went through the many Catacombs, for he was resolved that no smallest, humblest hero of the Lord should miss his share of the final triumph. He had had great cars prepared, decked with all possible richness, to convey the precious remains which had so long held the outposts of the city, to the Pantheon in its very heart; but when he had gone through all the dark, intricate passages of the underground cemeteries, tapping at the walls and examining every atom of surface that might conceal a once proscribed tomb, I think his artificers must have had to build more chariots for the returning army than they had expected, for it was very great. At last, however, all was ready. It was the 13th of May, Anno Domini 609, and a glorious morning, when the converging processions set forth, met, and entered the city in triumph. The Pontiff in his splendid vestments led the procession, swelled as it went along by all the inhabitants of Rome. Long serried ranks of prelates, priests, and monks followed him, carrying tall lighted tapers that gleamed but faintly in the Roman sun; the air was sweet with fragrances that grew stronger as the convoy passed along the flower-strewn streets, and the perfume of hundreds of censers swung up on the bright air. Rome was poor then, but the Romans had still found blue and crimson tapestries to hang from the windows, and every portico and window was crowded with eager onlookers who, as the procession approached, took up the roar of welcome with which the city greeted its dead. But I think a hush fell when the dead came into sight at the turn of the street or the entrance of the Square, and the enormous cars moved nearer, their dear, terrible burden piled high above the sides, and covered with silks and flowers, through which here and there showed just enough of a coffin’s outline to wring the heart and let loose a rain of tears. “Twenty-seven great cars, filled with the bones of the Martyrs, did Boniface the Pope bring to the Pantheum, now consecrated to the Service of God and the honour of the Blessed Virgin.” Truly may that splendid temple, open to the sky, claim its title of “St. Mary of the Martyrs,” and rightly did the Pontiff and his followers as they brought them in raise the triumphant shout: “The Saints shall rejoice in their beds! Arise, ye friends of God, and enter into the glory He has prepared for His elect!” After all these great names it seems strange to have to record a very humble one, that of a poor workingman, in connection with the Pantheon, but I can never pass the famous Church without remembering a certain Giovanni Borgi, whose memory was held in great benediction in Rome in my young days.