The Roman Emperors escorted the Pope returning to Vatican. On the way, carriages met them, and disgorged sovereigns: state-coaches met them, and emitted cardinals: courtiers alighted from horseback and emerged from motor-cars. The return became a procession of the powers, led by the Power of the Keys. They had crossed the Ponte Santangelo, and were about to turn to the left by the Castle, when a dishevelled man in black contrived to break out from the ranks of the people. He got through the bersaglieri and stepped into the middle of the road: pointed a revolver at Hadrian; and fired. The bullet struck His Holiness high up on the left breast, piercing the pulmonary artery just above the lung.
The slim white figure stopped—wavered—and sank down. The whole world seemed to stand still, while the human race gasped once.
A frantic woman in a fox-coloured wig pitched out of the opposite crowd; and grovelled. "Love, Love," she howled hideously: "oh and I loved him so! Oh! Oh! I really did love him. Yes I did, I did, I did, I did ..." she yelped to the sun in the firmament of heaven. The discord resembled the baying of a dog which breaks the cadence of Handel's Largo on arch-lutes.
God's Vicegerent moved,—looked at her from a distance, gently, even curiously. "Daughter, go in peace," He said and turned away. She remained there grovelling, longing to touch Him, forlorn, gorgonized.
The Roman Emperors also kneeled to right and left, fiercely looking among their aides for the help which did not come, which could not come, from man.
The assassin was in a hundred tearing hands. Screeches shot out of his gullet when they silently and inevitably began to tear him to pieces. Roman knives flashed over the parapet; and slid into Tiber: hooked hands, like the curving talons of griffins, were the weapons for this work. But the Supreme Pontiff beckoned him; and the gesture was unmistakeable—universally authoritative. Shaken and violently shaking, jagged, lacerated, a disreputable wreck of Pictish ready-made tailoring, Jerry Sant staggered forward, staggered like one fascinated. Cardinals and sovereigns drew away from him, and the mob hemmed him in.
" ... for they know not...." The Apostle raised himself a little, supported by imperial hands. How bright the sunlight was, on the warm grey stones, on the ripe Roman skins, on vermilion and lavender and blue and ermine and green and gold, on the indecent grotesque blackness of two blotches, on apostolic whiteness and the rose of blood.
"Augustitudes, Our will and pleasure is——"
"Speak it, Most Holy Father——"
"Augustitudes, We name you both the ministers of this Our will." And to the murderer He said, "Son, you are forgiven: you are free."