the great edifice, and as the hands of the clock pointed to half-past nine, myriads of electric lights burst out, and the organ thundered. The cardinals, in long procession, took their places. In the special galleries were a host of French and Italian notabilities.

The basilica presented a fairylike appearance. It was hung with red velvet draperies, and everywhere strings of electric lights were artistically arranged. Huge pictures representing the miracles of Joan of Arc, together with her statue, were placed over the high altar, but they were veiled. The ceremony began by the reading of the brief, at the last word of which the veils fell. The statue appeared framed with electric lights, the bells pealed forth, and the choirs intoned the Te Deum, which was taken up by the vast throng.

The Bishop of Orleans then said the first Pontifical mass in honor of Joan of Arc, which ended the first portion of the ceremony.

In the afternoon the ceremonial was no less impressive. The Pope passed through the ranks of kneeling pilgrims, followed by his court and picturesque guards, to the altar. After the singing of the liturgical hymn, the advocates for the beatification presented to the Pope the traditional gifts of a basket of flowers and a "Life of Joan of Arc," magnificently bound.

On the following day the Pope held a special audience for the pilgrims at St. Peter's.

CATH. FIFTH READER- 2

18

ENSIGN EPPS, THE COLOR BEARER

Ensign Epps, at the battle of Flanders,

Sowed a seed of glory and duty,

That flowers and flames in height and beauty
Like a crimson lily with heart of gold,

To-day, when the wars of Ghent are old,
And buried as deep as their dead commanders.

Ensign Epps was the color bearer,

No matter on which side, Philip or Earl;

Their cause was the shell- his deed was the pearl.
Scarce more than a lad, he had been a sharer
That day in the wildest work of the field.

He was wounded and spent, and the fight was lost;
His comrades were slain, or a scattered host.

But stainless and scatheless, out of the strife,
He had carried his colors safer than life.
By the river's brink, without weapon or shield,
He faced the victors. The thick heart mist
He dashed from his eyes, and the silk he kissed
Ere he held it aloft in the setting sun,

As proudly as if the fight were won;

And he smiled when they ordered him to yield.

Ensign Epps, with his broken blade,
Cut the silk from the gilded staff,

Which he poised like a spear till the charge was made,

And hurled at the leader with a laugh.

Then round his breast, like the scarf of his love,

He tied the colors his heart above,

And plunged in his armor into the tide,

And there, in his dress of honor, died.

Where are the lessons your kinglings teach?

And what is the text of your proud commanders?
Out of the centuries, heroes reach

With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a story
Of one man's truth and of all men's glory,

Like Ensign Epps at the battle of Flanders.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

"WHERE GOEST THOU, MASTER?"

At the dawn of a certain day, nearly nineteen hundred years ago, two dark figures were moving along the Appian Way toward the Campania, a short distance from Rome.

One of them was a boy named Nazarius; the other was the Apostle Peter, who was leaving Rome and his martyred co-religionists.

The sky in the east was assuming a light tinge of green, bordered gradually and more distinctly on the

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