“What is it? what can it be?” one began to ask the other; when Fulvius chanced to pass by, and joined the circle round the combatants.  He at once recognized Tarcisius, having seen him at the Ordination; and being asked, as a better-dressed man, the same question, he replied contemptuously, as he turned on his heel, “What is it?  Why, only a Christian, bearing the Mysteries.”

This was enough.  Heathen curiosity, to see the Mysteries of the Christians revealed, and to insult them, was aroused, and a general demand was made to Tarcisius to yield up his charge.  “Never with life,” was his only reply.  A heavy blow from a smith’s fist nearly stunned him, while the blood flowed from the wound.  Another and another followed, till, covered with bruises, but with his arms crossed fast upon his breast, he fell heavily on the ground.  The mob closed upon him, and were just seizing, him to tear open his thrice-holy trust, when they felt themselves pushed aside right and left by some giant strength.  Some went reeling to the further side of the square, others were spun round and round, they knew not how, till they fell where they were, and the rest retired before a tall athletic officer, who was the author of this overthrow.  He had no sooner cleared the ground than he was on his knees, and with tears in his eyes raised up the bruised and fainting boy as tenderly as a mother could have done, and in most gentle tones asked him, “Are you much hurt, Tarcisius?”

“Never mind me, Quadratus,” answered he, opening his eyes with a smile; “but I am carrying the Divine Mysteries; take care of them.”

The soldier raised the boy in his arms with tenfold reverence, as if bearing, not only the sweet victim of a youthful sacrifice, a martyr’s relics, but the very King and Lord of Martyrs, and the divine Victim of eternal salvation.  The child’s head leaned in confidence on the stout soldier’s neck, but his arms and hands never left their watchful custody of the confided gift; and his gallant bearer felt no weight in the hallowed double burden which he carried.  No one stopped him, till a lady met him and stared amazedly at him.  She drew nearer, and looked closer at what he carried.  “Is it possible?” she exclaimed with terror, “is that Tarcisius, whom I met a few moments ago, so fair and lovely?”

“Madam,” replied Quadratus, “they have murdered him because he was a Christian.”

The lady looked for an instant on the child’s countenance.  He opened his eyes upon her, smiled, and expired.  From that look came the light of faith—­she hastened to be a Christian.

The venerable Dionysius could hardly see for weeping, as he removed the child’s hands, and took from his bosom, unviolated, the Holy of Holies; and he thought he looked more like an angel now, sleeping the martyr’s slumber, than he did when living scarcely an hour before.  Quadratus himself bore him to the cemetery of Callistus, where he was buried amidst the admiration of older believers; and later a holy Pope composed for him an epitaph, which no one can read without concluding that the belief in the real presence of Our Lord’s Body in the Blessed Eucharist was the same then as now: