The man in priest's garb got out of the elevator at the top floor, leaving the gate ajar. He removed the rifle from under his habit and opened the breech. It was loaded. He closed it and stepped to the edge of the roof. St. Peters Square was spread out before him like a great colored lake. There were more people than he had ever seen before. On the steps leading to the cathedral an altar had been set out. There were priests and monsignors all in royal purple, sitting on all sides of the altar. It was a simple shot. A good, clear, direct shot. Now the target arrived. The man on top of the building sighted down the rifle, straight and true, at the small figure below. He heard them singing now, voices rising above them in the high, exalted air as though they were singing their praises to him. His finger was ready on the trigger, ready to gun down His Holiness, the Vicar of Christ....
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