SYRIA, THE LAND OF LEBANON
with his own bishops he had to wage unceasing warfare, and the contest drove him into an early grave.
Then they clothed the dead man in his richest robes, heavy with gold and jewels. They put his pontifical staff in his hand and set him on his throne in his palace, and for three days all the world thronged to see him. There were foreign consuls, come to do honor to the wise statesman, Protestant missionaries who esteemed the great Catholic for his honesty and courage, careless young people drawn by news of the strange spectacle, and thousands upon thousands of Butrus' beloved poor, who kissed his cold hand and prayed to him with absolute confidence that he would still be their friend and protector.
On a bright, beautiful Easter Sunday I watched his funeral procession pass through the streets of Beirut. In a way, this last journey was typical of his life and character. For the first time in many long centuries, all sects ignored their differences so that they might together do honor to the prelate who was greater than his church. Roman Catholic, Greek Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Maronite and Armenian marched together; and as the cortège passed the little Protestant Church, its bell was tolled "in order that," as its pastor said, "the Turkish soldiers in the barracks yonder may know that, after all, we Christians are one."
First came three companies of Turkish soldiers and sixty gorgeously dressed consular guards; then chil-
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