Frightful was the scene that ensued. The brave Swiss were quickly overcome and massacred by the bands of unlicensed soldiers who had burst into the church, and numbers of prelates and priests shared their fate. The work of pillage then commenced, and the altars were quickly stripped of all their ornaments by the rapacious soldiery. Great silver crucifixes, the Pope's splendid cross, magnificent censers, golden and silver images, superb altar coverings, and rich priestly vestments, great chalices, cups and plate, were all piled together in an immense heap, to be divided anon among the soldiery. But while the work of pillage was going on, numbers of the Lutheran soldiers were engaged in demolishing all they regarded as idolatrous ana superstitious, and no statue or picture escaped destruction or mutilation by these ferocious zealots. The whole interior of the glorious building presented an indescribable scene of horror and confusion. Instead of resounding with the solemn notes of the organ, and the exquisite voices of the choir, the roof now echoed with the shouts and imprecations of the infuriated soldiery, and with the shrieks of their victims. The pavement was slippery with blood. Hell and its legions seemed let loose in the holy of holies. Horror-stricken by the scene, Pomperant was hurrying away, when his ear was assailed by the cries of a female in distress. So piercing were these cries that they were distinctly heard above the dreadful hubbub that prevailed. But heartrending as they were, they seemed to excite no attention. All were too busily occupied to heed them., Looking in the direction whence these cries proceeded, Pomperant perceived a nun struggling with three or four Spanish soldiers, one of whom had seized her in his arms and was carrying her off, despite her cries and resistance. What was Pomperant's horror and distress on discovering that this unfortunate nun was Marcelline. He instantly flew to her assistance, and fiercely commanded the soldier to release her, but as the ruffian refused to relinquish his prize, he unhesitatingly cut him down, and bore her off, hoping to find some safe asylum for her. But there was no place of refuge to be found in Saint Peter's on that terrible day. While he was gazing around in fearful anxiety, trying to soothe her, the Spanish soldier, whom he had wounded, approached them unawares, and plunged his poniard in her breast, exclaiming as he struck the vengeful blow, “If she cannot be mine, she shall not be yours.” Having consummated this atrocious act, the wretch fell on the pavement. Half maddened, and scarcely knowing what he did, covered with the blood of her for whom he would have shed his own heart's blood, Pomperant hurried with her to a side-chapel, which, having been pillaged and stripped, was now deserted. He saw that the wound she had received was mortal, and that she had not many minutes to live, and sitting down on a marble bench, held her in his arms.