nor setting down aught in malice. Please interpret what I say in the
next few minutes metaphorically, and pardon me if my picture is a
repellant one.

We are in the year of our Lord, 400:

I rose up early this morning to go to church. As I approached the
building, I saw there a great multitude of people unable to secure
admission into the edifice. The huge iron doors were closed, and upon
them was affixed a notice from the authorities, to the effect that all
who worshiped in this church would, by the authority of the state, be
known and treated hereafter as "infamous heretics," and be exposed to
the extreme penalty of the law if they persisted in holding services
there. But the party to which I belonged heeded not the prohibition,
but beat against the doors furiously and effected an entrance into the
church. The excitement ran high; men and leaders shouted, gesticulated
and came to blows. The Archbishop was urged to ascend his episcopal
throne and officiate at the altar in spite of the formal interdiction
against him. He consented. But he had not proceeded far when soldiers,
with a wild rush, poured into the building and began to discharge
arrows at the panic-stricken people. Instantly pandemonium was let
loose. The officers commanding the soldiers demanded the head of the
offending Archbishop. The worshipers made an attempt to resist; then
blood was shed, the sight of which reeled people's heads, and, in an
instant, the sanctuary was turned into a house of murder. Taking
advantage of the uproar, the Archbishop, assisted by his secretaries,
escaped through a secret door behind the altar.

[Illustration: Engraving of XV Century Representing the Trinity.]