(I)
"Just be natural," whispered Father Jervis a quarter of an hour
later, as they passed through the big ante-room. "You needn't
explain a word. I've told him everything."
He tapped; and a voice answered.
Sitting in a big arm-chair drawn up to the writing-table, the man
who had lost his memory saw a tall, thin figure, in black with
scarlet buttons, and a small scarlet skull-cap crowning his
iron-grey hair. It was a little hard to make out the face at
first, as the window was immediately beyond it; but he saw almost
immediately that, although the face smiled at him reassuringly
and welcomingly, it was entirely unfamiliar.
The Cardinal stood up as the two approached, pushing back his
chair, and held out both his hands.
"My dear Monsignor," he said, and grasped the other's hands
firmly and kindly.
"I . . . your Eminence . . ." stammered the man.
"Now, now; not one word till I've done. I've heard everything.
Come and sit down."
He led him to a chair on the hearth-rug, placed him in it,
and himself sat down in his own, facing him. The priest
remained standing.
"Now, I'm going to begin with an order, on holy obedience,"
smiled the Cardinal. "You and Father Jervis--if the doctor
approves--are to start for a little European tour by the
midnight volor."
"The . . . ?"
"The volor," said the Cardinal. "It'll do you good. Father Jervis
will undertake all responsibility, and you needn't worry yourself
at all. I shall telegraph to Versailles in my own name, and make
one or two arrangements, and a couple of my servants will attend
you. You will have nothing to do but get better. You can't be
spared. It'll all come perfectly right, I have no manner of
doubt. Father Jervis, just ask the doctor to step here."
The Cardinal talked a minute or two longer, still with that
soothing, peaceful air; and Monsignor, as he listened, watched
the priest go up to a row of black boxes, resembling those in
his own room, and take down a shutter from one of them. He then
said a rapid sentence or two in a whisper, reclosed the
shutter, and came back.
"If things don't clear themselves, you will just have to learn
your business over again, Monsignor," went on the Cardinal, still
smiling. "Father Jervis has told me how well you did at lunch;
and Mr. Manners said nothing, except that you were a very good
host and a very graceful listener. So you need not fear that any
one will notice. So please put out of your mind any thought that
any one else will take your place here. I shall expect you back
in a month or two, and not a soul will be any the wiser. I shall
just let it be known that you're gone for a holiday. You have
always worked hard enough, anyhow, to deserve one."
At that moment, somewhere out of the air, from the direction of
the boxes on the wall, a very deferential, quiet voice uttered a
few words in Latin.
The Cardinal nodded. Father Jervis went to the door and opened
it, and there came through a man in a black cloak, resembling a
gown, followed by a servant carrying a bag. The bag was set down,
the servant went out, and the doctor came forward to kiss the
Cardinal's ring.
"I want you just to examine Monsignor Masterman," said the
Cardinal. "And, doctor, please observe absolute silence
afterwards. Just say that you have found him a little run down."
Monsignor made a movement to stand up, but the Cardinal
restrained him.
"Do you remember this gentleman?" he asked.
Monsignor stared blankly at the doctor.
"I have never seen him in my life," he said.
The doctor smiled, simply and frankly.
"Well, well, Monsignor," he said.
"It seems just a loss of memory," went on the Cardinal. "Just
tell the doctor how it happened."
The invalid made an effort; he shut his eyes for an instant to
recover himself; and then he related at length his first apparent
consciousness in Hyde Park, and all that had followed. Father
Jervis put a question from time to time, which he answered quite
rationally; and at the close the doctor, who was sitting opposite,
watching every movement of his face, leaned back, smiling.
"Well, Monsignor," he said, "it seems to me that your memory is
sufficiently good. Just put another question, father--a really
difficult one--about something that has happened since noon."
"Can you remember the points of Mr. Manners' speech?" asked the
priest doubtfully.
The other paused for a moment.
"Psychology, Comparative Religion, the Philosophy of
Evidence, Pragmatism, Art, Politics, and finally
Recuperation. These were the----"
"Now that's astonishing!" said the priest. "I could only
remember four myself."
"When did you see the Cardinal last?" asked the doctor suddenly.
"I have never seen him before, to my knowledge," faltered the sick man.
The Cardinal leaned forward and patted him gently on the knee.
"Never mind," he said. "Then, doctor----"
"Would your Eminence put a question to him on some very important
matter? Something that would have made a deep impression."
The Cardinal considered.
"Well," he said, "yes. Do you remember the message brought by
special messenger from Windsor yesterday evening?"
Monsignor shook his head.
"That'll do," said the doctor. "Don't attempt to force yourself."
He rose from his chair, fetched his bag and opened it. Out of it
he took an instrument rather resembling a small camera, but with
a bundle of minute wires of some very pliable material, each
ending in a tiny disc.
"Do you know what this is, Monsignor?" asked the doctor, busying
himself with the wires.
"I have no idea."
"Well, well. . . . Now, Monsignor, kindly loosen your waistcoat,
so that I can get at your breast and back."
"Is it a stethoscope?"
"Something like it," smiled the doctor. "But how did you know
that name? Never mind. Now then, please."
He placed the camera affair on the corner of the table near the
arm-chair; and then, very rapidly, began to affix the discs--it
seemed by some process of air-exhaustion--all over the head,
breast, and back of the amazed man. No sensation followed this at
all, except the very faint feeling of skin-contraction at each
point of contact.
"May I have that blind down, your Eminence? . . . Ah! that's
better. Now then."
He bent closely over the square box on the table, and seemed to
peer at something inside. The others kept silence.
"Well?" asked the Cardinal at last.
"Perfectly satisfactory, your Eminence. There is a very faint
discoloration, but no more than is usual in a man of Monsignor's
temperament at any excitement. There is absolutely nothing wrong,
and--Monsignor," he continued, looking straight at the
wire-bedecked invalid, "not the very faintest indication of
anything even approaching insanity or imbecility."
The man who had lost his memory drew a swift breath.
"May I see, doctor?" asked the Cardinal suavely.
"Certainly, your Eminence; and Monsignor can look
himself, if he likes."
When the other two had looked, the sick man himself was given the box.
"(Carefully with that wire, please.) There!" said the doctor.
"Look down there."
In the centre of the box, shielded by a little plate of glass,
there appeared a small semi-luminous globe. This globe seemed
tinted with slightly wavering colours, in which a greyish blue
predominated; but, almost like a pulse, there moved across it
from time to time a very pale red tint, suffusing it, and then
dying away again.
"What is it?" asked the man in the chair hoarsely, lifting his head.
"That, my dear Monsignor," explained the doctor carefully, "is a
reflection of your physical condition. It is an exceedingly
simple, though of course very delicate instrument. The method
was discovered---"
"Is it anything to do with magnetism?"
"They used to call it that, I think. It's got several names now.
All mental disturbance has, of course, a physical side to it, and
that is how we are able to record it physically. It was
discovered by a monk, of course."
"But . . . but it's marvellous."
"Everything is marvellous, Monsignor. Certainly this, however,
caused a revolution. It became the symbol of the whole modern
method of medicine."
"What's that?" The doctor laughed.
"That's a large question," he said.
"But . . ."
"Well, in a word, it's the old system turned upside down. A
century ago when a man was ill they began by doctoring his body.
Now, when a man's ill, they begin by doctoring his mind. You see
the mind is much more the man than the body is, as Theology
always taught us. Therefore by dealing with the mind----"
"But that's Christian Science!"
The doctor looked bewildered.
"It was an old heresy, doctor," put in the Cardinal, smiling,
"that denied the reality of matter. No, Monsignor, we don't deny
the reality of matter. It's perfectly real. Only, as the doctor
says, we prefer to attack the real root of the disease, rather
than its physical results. We still use drugs; but only to remove
painful symptoms."
"That . . . that sounds all right," stammered the man, bewildered
by the simplicity of it. "Then . . . then do you mean, your
Eminence, that physical diseases are treated---?"
"There are no physical diseases left," put in the doctor. "Of
course there are accidents and external physical injuries; but
practically all the rest have disappeared. Very nearly all of
them were carried by the blood, and, by dealing with this, the
tissues are made immune. Our discoveries also in the region of
innervation----"
"But . . . but . . . are there no diseases then?"
"Why, yes, Monsignor," interrupted the Cardinal, with the patient
air of one talking to a child, "there are hundreds of those; and
they are very real indeed; but they are almost entirely
mental--or psychical, as some call them. And there are
specialists on all of these. Bad habits of thought, for example,
always set up some kind of disease; and there are hospitals for
these; and even isolation homes."
"Forgive me, your Eminence," put in the doctor, with a certain
imperiousness, "but I think we ought not to talk to Monsignor too
much on this subject. May I put a question or two?"
"I beg your pardon, doctor. Certainly. Put any question you wish."
The doctor sat down again.
"Have you been in the habit of saying Mass every day, Monsignor?"
"I . . . I don't know," said the invalid.
"Yes, doctor," put in Father Jervis.
"And confession once a week?"
"Twice a week," said Father Jervis. "I am Monsignor's confessor."
"Very good," said the doctor. "For the present, as far as I am
concerned, I should recommend confession only once a fortnight as
a general rule. Mass can be as before. Then Monsignor may say
half of his office every day, or the rosary; but not both. And no
other devotions of any kind, except the particular Examen. If
Monsignor and Father Jervis both consent, I should like the
Examen to be forwarded to a priest-doctor for a few weeks."
An exclamation broke from the invalid.
"Well, Monsignor?"
"I don't understand. What are you talking about?"
The Cardinal leaned forward.
"Monsignor, listen to me. In these cases the doctor always gives
his advice. You see even the sacraments have their mental side;
and on this mental side the doctor speaks. But the whole decision
rests entirely with the patient and his confessor; or they can
call in an expert priest-doctor. Only a priest can possibly
decide finally the relations between the grace of the sacraments
and their reactionary effect upon the mind. A lay doctor only
recommends. Are you satisfied?"
The man nodded. It seemed very simple, so stated.
"For the rest," continued the doctor, with a certain
stateliness of manner, "I order a complete change of scene.
This must be for a fortnight at least, if not longer. If the
priest-doctor's report--to whom the Examen may be sent--is
not satisfactory, it will have to be for longer. The patient
must engage in no business that does not honestly interest him."
"May he travel to-night?" asked the Cardinal.
"The sooner the better," said the doctor, rising.
"What is the matter with me?" asked the invalid hoarsely.
"It is a small mental explosion, but it has not affected the
mechanism of the brain. There is not, as I have said, a trace of
insanity or of loss of balance. I cannot promise that the injury
will be repaired; but defects that may follow from this can
easily be remedied by study. It simply depends upon yourself,
Monsignor, as to in how long you can be at your post again here.
As soon as you have learned the threads of business, you will be
able to apply yourself as before. I shall look for a report in a
fortnight's time at the latest. Good day, your Eminence."
(II)
The clocks of London were all striking the single stroke of
midnight as the two priests stood on the wind-sheltered platform
of the volor, waiting for the start.
To Monsignor Masterman the scene was simply overwhelming. There
was hardly a detail that was not new and unfamiliar. From where
he stood on the upper deck, grasping the rail before him, his
eyes looked out over a luminous city as lovely as fairyland.
There were no chimneys, of course (these, he had just learnt,
had altogether disappeared more than fifty years ago), but
spires and towers and pinnacles rose before him like a dream,
glowing against the dark sky, lit by the soft radiance of the
streets beneath. To the right, not a hundred yards away, rose
Saint Edward's tower, mellowed now to clear orange by the lapse
of three-quarters of a century; to the left a flight of
buildings, of an architectural design which he did not
understand, but which gave him a sense of extreme satisfaction;
in front towered the masses of Buckingham Palace as he seemed
always to have known it.
The platform of the flying ship on which he stood hung in dock at
least three hundred feet high above the roads beneath. He had
examined the whole vessel just now from stem to stern, and had
found it vaguely familiar; he determined to examine it again
presently. There was no gas-bag to sustain it--so much he had
noticed--though he could not say whence he had the idea that
gas-bags were usual. But it seemed to him as if the notion of
airships did carry some faint association to his mind, although
far less distinct than that of motor-cars and even trains. He had
enquired of his companion an hour or two earlier as they had
discussed their journey as to whether they would not go by train
and steamer, and had received the answer that these were never
used except for very short journeys.
Here, then, he stood and stared.
It was very quiet up here; but he listened with considerable
curiosity to the strange humming sound that filled the air,
rising and falling, as of a beehive. At first he thought it was
the working of engines in the ship; but he presently perceived it
to be the noise of the streets rising from below; and it was then
that he saw for the first time that foot-passengers were almost
entirely absent, and that practically the whole roadway, so far
as he could make out from the high elevation at which he stood,
was occupied by cars of all descriptions going this way and that.
They sounded soft horns as they went, but they bore no lights,
for the streets were as light as day with a radiance that seemed
to fall from beneath the eaves of all the buildings that lined
them. This effect of lighting had a curious result of making the
city look as if it were seen through glass or water--a
beautifully finished, clean picture, moving within itself like
some precise and elaborate mechanism.
He turned round at a touch on his arm.
"You would like to see the start, perhaps," said the old priest.
"We are a little late to-night. The country mails have only just
arrived. But we shall be off directly now. Come this way."
The upper deck, as the two turned inwards, presented an extremely
pleasant and reassuring picture. From stem to stern it ran clear,
set out, however, with groups of tables and chairs clamped to the
floor, at which sat a dozen parties or so, settling themselves
down comfortably. There were no funnels, no bridge, no break at
all to the delightful vista. The whole was lighted by the same
device as were the streets, for round the upper edges of the
transparent walls that held out the wind shone a steady, even
glow from invisible lights.
In the very centre of the deck, however, was a low railing
that protected the head of a staircase, and down this well
the two looked.
"Shall I explain?" asked the old priest, smiling. "This is
the latest model, you know. It has not been in use for more
than a few months."
The other nodded.
"Tell me everything, please."
"Well, look right down there, below the second flight. The first
flight leads to the second-class deck, and the flight below to the
working parts of the ship. Now do you see that man's head, straight
in the middle, in the bright light?--yes, immediately under. Well,
that's the first engineer. He's in a glass compartment, you see,
and can look down passages in every direction. The gas arrangements
are all in front of him, and the----"
"Stop, please. What power is it that drives the ship? Is it
lighter than air, or what?"
"Well, you see the entire framework of the ship is hollow. Every
single thing you see--even the chairs and tables--they're all
made of the metal _aerolite_ (as it's generally called). It's
almost as thin as paper, and it's far stronger than any steel.
Now it's the framework of the ship that takes the place of the
old balloon. It's infinitely safer, too, for it's divided by
automatically closing stops into tens of thousands of
compartments, so a leak here and there makes practically no
difference. Well, when the ship's at rest, as it is now, there's
simply air in all these tubes; but when it's going to start,
there is forced into these tubes, from the magazine below, the
most volatile gas that has been discovered----"
"What's it called?"
"I forget the real name. It's generally called _aeroline_. Well,
this is forced in, until the specific gravity of the whole
affair, passengers and all, is as nearly as possible the same as
the specific gravity of the air."
"I see. Good Lord, how simple!"
"And the rest is done with planes and screws, driven by
electricity. The tail of the boat is a recent development.
(You'll see it when we're once started.) It's exactly like the
tail of a bird, and contracts and expands in every direction.
Then besides that there are two wings, one on each side, and
these can be used, if necessary, in case the screws go wrong, as
propellers. But usually they are simply for balancing and
gliding. You see, barring collisions, there's hardly the
possibility of an accident. If one set of things fails, there's
always something else to take its place. At the very worst, we
can but be blown about a bit."
"But it's exactly like a bird, then."
"Of course, Monsignor," said the priest, with twinkling eyes,
"it isn't likely that we could improve upon Almighty God's
design. We're very simple, you know. . . . Look, he's
signalling. We're going to start. Come to the prow. We shall see
better from there."
The upper deck ended in a railing, below which protruded, from
the level of the lower deck, the prow proper of the boat. Upon
this prow, in a small compartment of which the roof, as well as
the walls, was of hardened glass, stood the steersman amid his
wheels. But the wheels were unlike anything that the bewildered
man who looked down had ever dreamed of. First, they were not
more than six inches in diameter; and next, they were arranged,
like notes on a keyboard, with their edges towards him, with the
whole set curved round him in a semicircle.
"Those to right and left," explained the priest, "control the
planes on either side; those in front, on the left, control the
engines and the gas supply; and on the right, the tail of the
boat. Watch him, and you'll see. We're just starting."
As he spoke three bells sounded from below, followed, after a
pause, by a fourth. The steersman straightened himself as the
first rang out and glanced round him; and upon the fourth, bent
himself suddenly over the key board, like a musician addressing
himself to a piano.
For the first instant Monsignor was conscious of a slight swaying
motion, which resolved itself presently into a faint sensation of
constriction on his temples, but no more. Then this passed, and
as he glanced away again from the steersman, who was erect once
more, his look happened to fall over the edge of the boat. He
grasped his friend convulsively.
"Look," he said, "what's happened?"
"Yes, we're off," said the priest sedately.
Beneath them, on either side, there now stretched itself an
almost illimitable and amazingly beautiful bird's-eye view of a
lighted city, separated from them by what seemed an immeasurable
gulf. From the enormous height up to which they had soared the
city looked like a complicated flat map, of which the patches
were dark and the dividing lines rivers of soft fire. This
stretched practically to the horizon on all sides; the light
toned down at the edges into a misty luminosity, but as the
bewildered watcher stared in front of him, he saw how directly in
their course there slid toward them two great patches of dark,
divided by a luminous stream in the middle.
"What is it? What is it?" he stammered.
The priest seemed not to notice his agitation; he just passed his
hand quietly into the trembling man's elbow.
"Yes," he said, "there are houses all the way to Brighton now, of
course, and we go straight down the track. We shall take in
passengers at Brighton, I think."
There was a step behind them.
"Good evening, Monsignor," said a voice. "It's a lovely night."
The prelate turned round, covered with confusion, and saw a man
in uniform saluting him deferentially.
"Ah! captain," slipped in the priest. "So we're crossing with
you, are we?"
"That's it, father. The _Michael_ line's running this week."
"It's a wonderful thing to me----" began Monsignor, but a sharp
pressure on his arm checked him--"how you keep the whole
organization going," he ended lamely.
The captain smiled.
"It's pretty straightforward," he said. "The _Michael_ line runs the
first week of every month; the _Gabriel_ the second, and so on."
"Then----"
"Yes," put in Father Jervis. "Whose idea was it to dedicate the
lines to the archangels? I forget."
"Ah! that's ancient history to me, father. . . . Excuse me,
Monsignor; I think I hear my bell." he wheeled, saluting
again, and was off.
"Do you mean---?" began Monsignor.
"Of course," said Father Jervis, "everything runs on those lines
now. You see we're matter-of-fact, and it's really rather
obvious, when you think of it, to dedicate the volor lines to
the angels. We've been becoming more and more obvious for the
last fifty years. . . . By the way, Monsignor, you must take
care not to give yourself away. You'd better not ask many
questions except of me."
Monsignor changed the subject.
"When shall we get to Paris?" he asked.
"We shall be a little late, I think, unless they make up time.
We're due at three. I hope there won't be any delay at Brighton.
Sometimes on windy nights----"
"I suppose the descending and the starting again takes some time."
The priest laughed.
"We don't descend at places _en route_," he said. "The tender
comes up to us. It'll probably be in its place by now. We aren't
ten minutes away."
The other compressed his lips and was silent.
Presently, far away to the southward beneath the soft starlit sky,
the luminous road down which they travelled seemed to expand once
more almost abruptly into another vast spread of lights. But as
they approached this did not extend any farther, but lay cut off
sharp by a long, curving line of almost complete darkness.
"Brighton . . . the sea . . . And there's the tender waiting."
At first the prelate could not make it out against the radiance
below, but an instant later, as they rushed on, it loomed up,
sudden and enormous, itself blazing with lights against the dark
sea. It looked to him something like a floating stage, outlined
with fire; and there were glimmering, perpendicular lines beneath
it which he could not understand, running down to lose themselves
in the misty glow three hundred feet beneath.
"How's it done?" he asked.
"It's a platform, charged of course with _aeroline_. It runs on
lines straight up from the stage beneath, and keeps itself steady
with screws. You'll see it go down after we've left again. Come
to the stern, we shall see better from there."
By the time that they had reached the other end of the ship, the
pace had rapidly diminished almost to motionlessness; and as soon
as Monsignor could attend again, he perceived that there was
sliding at a footpace past their starboard side the edge of the
huge platform that he had seen just now half a mile away. For a
moment or two it swayed up and down; there was a slight vibration;
and then he heard voices and the trampling of footsteps.
"The bridges are fixed," remarked the priest. "They're on the
lower deck, of course. Pretty prompt, aren't they?"
The prelate stood, staring with all his eyes; now at the
motionless platform that hung alongside, now at the gulf below
with the fairy lights strewed like stars and _nebulae_ at its
bottom. It seemed impossible to realize that this station in the
air was not the normal level, and the earth not a strange foreign
body that attended on it. There came up on deck presently a dozen
figures or so, carrying wraps, and talking. It was amazing to him
that they could behave with such composure. Two were even
quarrelling in subdued voices. . . .
It was hardly five minutes before the three bells rang again; and
before the fourth sounded, suddenly he saw drop beneath, like a
stone into a pit, the huge immovable platform that just now he
had conceived of as solid as the earth from which it had risen.
Down and down it went, swaying ever so slightly from side to
side, diminishing as it went; but before the motion had ceased
the fourth bell rang, and he clutched the rail to steady himself
as the ship he was on soared again with a strange intoxicating
motion. The next instant, as he glanced over the edge, he saw
that they were far out over the blackness of the sea.
"I think we might go below for a bit," said the priest in his ear.
There was no kind of difficulty in descending the stairs; there
was practically no oscillation of any kind in this still and
windless summer night, and the two came down easily and looked
round the lower deck.
This was far more crowded with figures: there were padded seats
fully occupied running round all the sides, beneath the enormous
continuous windows. In the centre, sternwards, ran a narrow
refreshment bar, where a score of men were standing to refresh
themselves. Forward of the farther stairs (down the well of which
they had seen the engineer's head), by which they were standing,
the deck was closed in, as with cabins.
"Like to see the oratory?" asked Father Jervis.
"The what?"
"Oratory. The long-journey boats, that have chaplains, carry the
Blessed Sacrament, of course; but there is only a little oratory
on these continental lines."
Monsignor followed him, unable to speak, up the central passage
running forwards; through a pair of heavy curtains; and there, to
his amazed eyes, appeared a small altar, a hanging lamp, and an
image of St. Michael.
"But it's astounding!" whispered the prelate, watching a man and
a woman at their prayers.
"It's common sense, isn't it?" smiled the priest. "Why, the
custom began a hundred years ago."
"No!"
"Indeed it did! I learnt it from one of the little guide-books
they give one on these boats. A company called the Great Western
had mosaic pictures of the patron saint of each boat in the
saloon. And their locomotives, too, were called after saints'
names. It's only plain common sense, if you come to think of it."
"Are lines like this--and railways, and so on--owned by the State
now? I suppose so."
The other shook his head.
"That was tried under Socialism," he said. "It was one of their
smaller failures. You see, when competition ceases, effort
ceases. Human nature is human nature, after all. The Socialists
forgot that. No; we encourage private enterprise as much as
possible, under State restrictions."
They paused as they came out again.
"Care to lie down for a bit? We shan't be in till three. The
Cardinal engaged a room for us."
He indicated a small cabin that bore his own name on a card.
Monsignor paused.
"Yes, I will, I think. I've a lot to think about."
But he could not sleep. The priest promised to awaken him
in plenty of time, and he slipped off his buckled shoes and
tried to compose his mind. But it was useless. His mind
whirled with wonder.
Once he slipped to a sitting position, drew back the little
curtain over the porthole, and stared out. There was little to be
seen; but by the sight of a lake of soft light that slid past at
some incalculable depth a dozen miles away, he perceived that
they had left the sea far behind and were spinning over the land
of France. He looked out long, revolving thoughts and
conjectures, striving to find some glimmer of memory by which he
might adjust these new experiences; but there was none. He was
like a child, with the brain of a man, plunged into a new mode of
existence, where everything seemed reversed, and yet
astonishingly obvious; it was the very simplicity that baffled
him. The Christian religion was true down (or up) even to the
Archangels that stand before God and control the powers of the
air. The priesthood was the priesthood; the Blessed Sacrament was
the God-Man tabernacling with men. Then where was the cause for
amazement that the world recognized these facts and acted upon
them; that men should salute the priest of God as His
representative and agent on earth; that air-ships (themselves
constructed on the model of the sea-gull--hollow feathers and
all) should carry the Blessed Sacrament on long journeys, that
communicants might not be deprived of their Daily Bread, and even
raise altars on board to the honour of those Powers under whose
protection they placed themselves. It was curious, too, he
reflected, that those who insist most upon the claims of Divinity
insist also upon the claims of humanity. It seemed suggestive
that it was the Catholics who were most aware of the competitive
passions of men and reckoned with them, while the Socialists
ignored them and failed.
So he sat--this poor man bewildered by simplicity and almost
shocked by the obvious--listening with unheeding ears to the
steady rush of air past the ship, voices talking naturally and
easily, heard through the roof above his head, an occasional
footstep, and once or twice a bell as the steersman communicated
some message to one of his subordinates. Here he sat--John
Masterman, Domestic Prelate to His Holiness Gregory XIX,
Secretary to His Eminence Gabriel Cardinal Bellairs, and priest
of the Holy Roman Church, trying to assimilate the fact that he
was on an air-ship, bound to the court of the Catholic French
King, and that practically the whole civilized world believed and
acted on the belief which he, as a priest, naturally also held
and was accustomed to teach.
A tap on his door roused him at last.
"It's time to be moving, Monsignor," said Father Jervis through
the half-open door. "We're in communication with St. Germains."