Yet, as he looked at them _en masse_, and compared them with his

general memories of the type of face that he saw in London

streets, there was certainly a difference. He could conceive

these people making speeches, recording votes, discussing

matters of public interest with great gravity and consideration;

he could conceive them distributing alms to the needy after

careful and scientific enquiry, administering justice; he could

imagine them even, with an effort, inflamed with political

passion, denouncing, appealing. . . . But it appeared to him (to

his imagination rather, as he angrily told himself) that he

could not believe them capable of any absolutely reckless crime

or reckless act of virtue. They could calculate, they could

plan, they had almost mechanically perfect ideas of justice;

they could even love and hate after their kind. But it was

inconceivable that their passion, either for good or evil, could

wholly carry them away. In one word, _there was no light behind

these faces_, no indication of an incomprehensible Power greater

than themselves, no ideal higher than that generated by the

common sense of the multitude. In short, they seemed to him to

have all the impassivity of the Christian atmosphere, with none

of its hidden fire.

He gave the signal presently for the driver to move on, and

himself leaned back in his seat with closed eyes. He felt

terribly alone in a terrible world. Was the whole human race,

then, utterly without heart? Had civilization reached such a

pitch of perfection--one part through supernatural forces, and

the other through human evolution--that there was no longer any

room for a man with feelings and emotions and an individuality of

his own? Yet he could no longer conceal from himself that the

other was better than this--that it was better to be heartless

through too vivid a grasp of eternal realities, than through an

equally vivid grasp of earthly facts.

* * * * *

As he reached the door of the great buildings where he lodged,

and climbed wearily out, the porter ran out, hat in hand, holding

a little green paper.

"Monsignor," he said, "this arrived an hour ago. We did not know

where you were."

He opened it there and then. It contained half a dozen words in

code. He took it upstairs with him, strangely agitated, and there

deciphered it. It bade him leave everything, come instantly to

Rome, and join the Cardinal.

CHAPTER II

(I)

There was dead silence on the long staircase of the Vatican,

leading up to the Cardinal Secretary's rooms, as Monsignor toiled

up within half an hour of his arrival at the stage outside the

city. A car was in waiting for him there, had whirled him first

to the old palace where he had stayed nine months ago with Father

Jervis; and then, on finding that Cardinal Bellairs had been

unexpectedly sent for to the Vatican, he had gone on there

immediately, according to the instructions that had been left

with the _majordomo_.

He knew all now; wireless messages had streamed in hour after

hour during the flight across the Atlantic. At Naples, where the

volor had first touched land, the papers already mentioned full

and exhaustive accounts of the outbreak, with the latest reports;

and by the time that he reached Rome he was as well informed of

the real facts of the case as were any who were not in the inner

circle of those who knew.

The Swiss guard presented his fantastic halberd, as he passed in

panting after his climb; a man in scarlet livery took his hat and

cloak; another preceded him through the first anteroom, where an

ecclesiastic received him; and with this priest he passed on

through the second and third rooms up to the door of the inner

chamber. The priest pushed the door open for him and he went in

alone; the door closed noiselessly behind him. The room was the

same as that which he remembered, all gold and red damask,

lighted from the roof, with the great brass-inlaid writing table

at the farther end, and the broad settee against the right-hand

wall, but it seemed to him in his apprehensiveness that the

solemnity was greater and the hushed silence even deeper. Two

figures sat side by side on the settee, each in the scarlet

ferraiuola of ceremony. One, Cardinal Bellairs, looked up at him

and nodded, even smiling a little; the other stood up and bowed

slightly, before extending his hand to be kissed. This second

figure was a great personality--Italian by birth, an

extraordinary linguist, a very largely made man, both stout and

tall, with a head of thick and perfectly white hair. He had been

a "Papabile" at the last election; and, it was thought, was

certain of the papacy some day, even though it was unusual that a

Secretary of State should succeed. He had a large, well-cut face,

rather yellowish in colour, with very bright, half-veiled black

eyes.

Monsignor kissed the ring without genuflecting, as the

custom was in the Vatican, and sat down on the chair indicated.

No one spoke for a moment.

"How much have you heard, Monsignor?" asked Cardinal

Bellairs abruptly.

"I have heard that the Socialists have seized Berlin and the

Emperor; that the city is fortified; that there have been two

massacres; and that the Emperor's life is threatened unless

the Powers grant all the terms asked within . . . within four

days from now."

"Have you heard of the death of Prince Otteone?"

"No, your Eminence."

"Prince Otteone was executed last night," said the Cardinal

simply. "He begged to go as the representative of the Holy Father

to treat for terms. They said they were not there to treat, but

to grant terms. And they say that they will do the same for every

envoy who does not bring a message of complete submission. That

will be known everywhere by midday."

Again there was silence. The Cardinal Secretary glanced from one

face to the other, as if hesitating. Monsignor made no attempt to

speak. He knew that was not his business.

"Can you guess why I have sent for you, Monsignor?"

"No, your Eminence."

"I am leaving for Berlin myself to-night. The Holy Father kindly

allows me to do so. I wish to leave some instructions about

English affairs before I go."

For a moment the priest's mind was unable to take in all the

significance of this. The Cardinal's air was of one who announces

that he is going into the country for a few days. There was not

the faintest sign even of excitement in his manner or voice.

Before the priest could speak the Cardinal went on.

"Your Eminence, I have told you what confidence I rest in

Monsignor Masterman. He has all the affairs of the English Church

in his hands. And I desire that, if possible, he should be

appointed Vicar-Capitular in the event of my death."

The Secretary of State bowed.

"I am sure----" he began.

"Your Eminence," cried the priest suddenly, "it's

impossible . . . it's impossible."

The Englishman looked at him sharply.

"It is what I wish," he said.

Monsignor collected himself with a violent effort. He could not,

even afterwards, trace the exact process by which he had arrived

so swiftly at his determination. He supposed it was partly the

drama of the situation--the sense that big demands were in the

air; partly nervous excitement; partly a certain distaste with

life that was growing on him; but chiefly and foremost a

passionate and devoted affection for his chief, which he had

never till this instant suspected in himself. He only perceived,

as clearly as in a vision, that this gallant old man must not be

allowed to go alone, and that he--he who had criticized and

rebelled against the brutality of the world--must go with him.

"Your Eminence," he said, "it is impossible, because I must come

with you to Berlin."

The Cardinal smiled and lifted his hand, as if to an

impetuous child.

"My dear fellow----"

Monsignor turned to the other. He felt cool and positive, as if a

breeze had fanned away his excitement.

"You understand, your Eminence, do you not? It is impossible

that the Cardinal should go alone. I am his secretary. I can

arrange everything with . . . with the Rector of the English

College here, if there is no one else. That is right, is it not,

your Eminence?"

The Italian hesitated.

"Prince Otteone went alone----" he began.

"Exactly. And there were no witnesses. That must not happen again."

There was an obvious answer, but no one made it. Cardinal

Bellairs stood up, lifting himself with his stick.

"It is very good of you," he said quietly. "I understand why you

make the offer. But it is impossible. Monsignor, will you talk

with His Eminence a little? There are one or two things he wishes

to tell you. I have to see the Holy Father, but I will be with

you again soon."

The priest stood up too.

"I must come with you to His Holiness," he said. "I will abide

by his decision."

The other shook his head, again smiling almost indulgently.

Monsignor turned swiftly to the Italian.

"Your Eminence," he said, "will you get this favour for me? I

must see the Holy Father after Cardinal Bellairs has seen him,

since I may not go with him."

The English Cardinal turned with a little abrupt movement and

stood looking at him. There was a silence.

"Well--come," he said.

(II)

The contrast between these two great Princes of the Church and

their Lord and Master struck Monsignor very strongly, in spite of

his excitement, as he followed his chief into the Pope's room,

and saw an almost startlingly commonplace man, of middle size,

rise up from the table at which he was writing.

He was a Frenchman, Monsignor knew, and not an exceptional

Frenchman. There was nothing sensational or even impressive about

his appearance, except his white dress and insignia; and even

these, upon him, seemed somehow rather tame and ordinary. His

voice, when he spoke presently, was of an ordinary kind of pitch

and his speaking rather rapid; his eyes were a commonplace grey,

his nose a little fleshy, and his mouth completely

undistinguished. He was, in short, completely unlike the Pope of

fiction and imagination; there was nothing of the Pontiff about

him in his manner. He might have been a clean-shaven business man

of average ability, who had chosen to dress himself up in a white

cassock and to sit in an enormous room furnished in crimson

damask and gold, with chandeliers, at a rather inconvenient

writing-desk. Even at this dramatic moment Monsignor found

himself wondering how in the world this man had risen to the

highest office on earth. (He had been the son of a postmaster in

Tours, the priest remembered.)

The Pope murmured an unintelligible greeting as the two, after

kissing his ring, sat down beside the writing-table.

"So you have come to take your leave, your Eminence?" he began.

"We should all be very grateful for your willingness to go. God

will reward you."

"Plainly it must be a Cardinal this time, Holy Father," said the

Englishman, smiling. "We have still four days. And one of my

nationality has affinity with the Germans, and yet is not one of

them, as I remarked to your Holiness last night. Besides, I am

getting an old man."

There was nothing whatever of the gallant _poseur_ in his manner,

whatever were the words. Monsignor perceived that somehow or

another these persons stood in an attitude towards death that

was beyond his comprehension altogether. They spoke of it

lightly and genially.

"Eh well," said the Pope, "it is decided so. You go to-night?"

"Yes, Holy Father, it is absolutely necessary for me to arrange my

affairs first. I have chartered a private volor. One of my own

servants has volunteered to drive it. But there is one more matter

before I receive your Holiness' instructions. This priest here, my

secretary, Monsignor Masterman, wishes to come with me. I ask your

Holiness to forbid that. I wish him to be Vicar-Capitular of my

diocese, if possible, in the event of my death."

The Pope glanced across at the priest.

"Why do you wish to go, Monsignor? Do you understand to what

you are going?"

"Holy Father, I understand everything. I wish to go because it is

not right that the Cardinal should go alone. Let there be a

witness this time. The Rector of the English College here can

receive all necessary instructions from His Eminence and myself."

"And you, Eminence?"

"I do not wish him to go because there is no need why two should

go, Holiness. One can carry the message as well as two."

There was silence for a moment. The Pope began to play with a pen

that lay before him. Then Monsignor burst out again.

"Holy Father, I beg of you to let me go. I am afraid of

death; . . . that is one reason why I should go. I am crippled

mentally; my memory left me a few months ago; it may leave me

again, and this time helpless and useless. And it is possible

that I may be of some service. Two are better than one."

For a moment the Pope said nothing. He had glanced up curiously

as the priest had said that he was "afraid of death." Then he had

looked down again, his lips twitching slightly.

"Eh well," he said. "You shall go if you wish it."

(III)

There was only a very small group of people collected to see the

second envoy leave for Berlin. The hour and place of starting had

been kept secret, on purpose to avoid a crowd; and beyond three

or four from the English College, with half a dozen private

friends of the Cardinal, a few servants, and perhaps a dozen

passers-by who had collected below in curiosity at seeing a

racing-volor attached to one of the disused flying stages on the

hill behind the Vatican--no one else, in the crowds that swarmed

now in the streets and squares of Rome, was even certain that an

envoy was going, still less of his identity.

Monsignor found himself, ten minutes before the start,

standing alone on the alighting-stage, while the Cardinal

still talked below.

As he stood there, now looking out over the city, where beneath

the still luminous sky the lights were already beginning to

kindle, and where in one or two of the larger squares he could

make out the great crowds moving to and fro--now staring at the

long and polished sides of the racing boat that swayed light as a

flower with the buoyancy of the inrushing gas--as he saw all

these things with his outward eyes, he was trying to understand

something of the new impulses and thoughts that surged through

him. He could have given little or no account of the reasons why

he was here; of his hopes or fears or expectations. He was as one

who watches on a sheet shadow-figures whirl past confusedly,

catching a glimpse here of a face or body, now of a fragmentary

movement, that appeared to have some meaning--yet grasping nothing

of the intention or plan of the whole. Or, even better, he was as

one caught in a mill-race, tossed along and battered, yet feeling

nothing acutely, curious indeed as to what the end would be, and

why it had had a beginning, yet fundamentally unconcerned. The

thing was so: there was no more to be said. He knew that it was

necessary that he should be here, about to start for almost

certain death, as that his soul should be inhabiting his body.

But even all these recent happenings had not as yet illuminated

him in the slightest as to the real character of the world that

he found so bewildering. He felt, vaguely, that he ought to have

by now all the pieces of the puzzle, but he was still as far as

ever from being able to fit them into a coherent whole. He just

perceived this--and no more--that the extraordinary tranquillity

of these Catholics in the presence of death was a real

contribution to the problem--as much as the dull earthliness of

the Socialist colony in America. It was not merely Dom Adrian in

particular who had been willing to die without perturbation or

protest; his judges and accusers seemed just as ready when their

turn came. And he--he who had cried out at Christian brutality,

who had judged the world's system by his own and found it

wanting--he feared death; although, so far his fear had not

deterred him from facing it.

He took his place in the narrow cabin in the same mood, following

the Cardinal in after the last good-byes had been said. It was a

tiny place, fitted with a single padded seat on either side

covered with linen and provided with pillows; a narrow table ran

up the centre; and strong narrow windows looked directly from the

sides of the boat. A stern platform, railed in and provided with

sliding glass shutters, gave room to take a few steps of

exercise; but the front of the boat was entirely occupied with

the driver's arrangements. It was a comparatively new type of

boat, he learned from some one with whom he had talked just now,

used solely for racing purposes; and its speed was such that they

would find themselves in Berlin before morning.

The stern door was swung to by one who leaned from the stage.

Still through the glass the Cardinal smiled out at his friends

and waved his hand. Then a bell struck, a vibration ran through

the boat, the stage outside lined with faces suddenly swayed and

then fell into space.

The Cardinal laid his hand on the priest's knee.

"Now let us have a talk," he said.

(IV)

The air that breathed down from the Alps was beginning to cloud

the windows of the cabin before they had finished talking.

The man who had lost his memory, under the tremendous stress of

an emotion of which he was hardly directly conscious at all--the

emotion generated by the knowledge that every whistling mile that

fled past brought him nearer an almost certain death--had

experienced a kind of sudden collapse of his defences such as he

had never contemplated.

He had told everything straight out to this quiet, fatherly

man--his terrors, his shrinking from the unfamiliar atmosphere of

thought to which he had awakened, it seemed, a few months before,

his sense that Christianity had lost its spirit, and, above all,

the strange absence of any definite religious emotion in himself.

He found this difficult to put into words; he had hardly realized

it even to himself.

The Cardinal put one question.

"And yet you are facing death on the understanding that

it is all true?"

"I suppose so."

"Very well, then. That is faith. You need say no more. You have

been to confession?"

"This afternoon."

The old man was silent for a moment.

"As to the unreality, the feeling that the Church is heartless, I

think that is natural. You had a violent mental shock in your

illness. That means that your emotions are very sensitive, almost

to the point of morbidness. Well, the heart of the Church is very

deep, and you have not found it yet. That does not greatly

matter. You must keep your _will_ fixed. That is all that God

asks. . . . I think it is true that the Church is hard, in a

certain sense; or shall we call it a Divine strength? It is

largely a matter of words. She has had that strength always. Once

it nerved her to suffer; now it nerves her to rule. But I think

you would find that she could suffer again."

"Your Eminence!" cried the priest lamentably, "I am beginning to

see that. . . . Yourself. . . . Prince Otteone. . . ."

The Cardinal lifted his hand.

"Of myself we need not speak. I am an old man, and I do not expect

to suffer. Prince Otteone was another matter. He was a young man,

full of life; and he knew to what he was going. Well, does not his

case impress you? He went quite cheerfully, you know."

The priest was silent.

"What are you thinking of, my son?"

The priest shivered a little.

"Tell me," said the Cardinal again.

"It is the Holy Father," burst out the other impulsively.

"He was terrible: so unconcerned, so careless as to who

lived or died. . . ."

He looked up in an agony, and saw a look almost of amusement in

the old man's eyes fixed on him.

"Yes, do not be afraid," murmured the old man. "You think he was

unconcerned? Well, ought he not to be? Is not that what we should

expect of the Vicar of Christ?"

"Christ wept."

"Yes, yes, and his Vicar too has wept. I have seen it. But Christ

went to death without tears."

"But . . . but this man is not going," cried the priest. "He is

sending others. If he went himself----"

He stopped suddenly; not at a sound, but at a kind of mental

vibration from the other. Up here in these heights, under the

pressure of these thoughts, every nerve and fibre seemed

stretched to an amazing pitch of sensitiveness. It seemed to him

as if he had never before lived at such a pitch.

But the other said nothing. Once his lips opened, but they closed

again. The priest said nothing. He waited.

"I think no one would expect the Holy Father to go himself under

such circumstances," said the Cardinal gently and blandly. "Do

you not think that it might be harder for him to remain?"

Monsignor felt a wave of disappointment. He had expected a revelation

of some kind, or a vivid sentence that would make all plain.

The old man leaned forward again smiling.

"Do not be impatient and critical," he said. "It is enough that

you and I are going. That should occupy us. Come, let us look

through these papers again."

It was an hour later that they swept down into the French plains.

The glass cleared again as they reached the warmer levels, and

Monsignor became conscious of an overpowering weariness. He

yawned uncontrollably once or twice. His companion laughed.

"Lie down a little, Monsignor. You have had a hard day of it.

I must have some sleep too. We must be as fresh as we can for

our interview."

Monsignor said nothing. He stepped across to the other couch, and

slipped off his shoes, took off his cincture, and lay down

without a word. Almost before he had finished wondering at the

marvellous steadiness of this flying arrow of a ship, he had sunk

down into complete unconsciousness.

(V)

He awoke with a start, coming up, as is common after the deep sleep

of exhaustion, into a state in which, although the senses are

awake, the intellect is still in a kind of paralysis of slumber. He

threw his feet off the couch and sat up, staring about him.

The first thing which he noticed was that the cabin was full of a

pale morning light, cold and cheerless, although the shaded

lights still burned in the roof. Then he saw that the Cardinal

was sitting at the farther end of the opposite couch, looking

intently out; that one of the glass shutters was slid back, and

that a cold, foggy air was visibly pouring in past the old man's

head. Then he saw the head of the driver through the glass panes

in the door; his hand rested on the grip of some apparatus

connected with the steering, he believed.

But beyond this there was nothing to be seen through the windows

opposite, of which the curtains had been drawn back; he saw

nothing but white driving mist. He tore back the curtains behind

him, and there also was the mist. It was plain then that they

were not at rest at any stage; and yet the slight humming

vibration, of which he had been conscious before he fell asleep,

and even during one or two moments of semi-wakefulness during the

night, this had ceased. The car hung here, like a floating

balloon, motionless, purposeless--far up out of sight of land,

and an absolute silence hung round it.

He moved a little as these things began to arrange themselves in

his mind, and at the movement the Cardinal turned round. He

looked old and worn in this chilly light, and his unshaven chin

sparkled like frost. But he spoke in his ordinary voice, without

any sign of discomposure.

"So you are awake, Monsignor? I thought I would let you have

your sleep out."

"What has happened? Where are we?"

"We arrived half an hour ago. They signalled to us to remain

where we were until they came up."

"We have arrived!"

"Certainly. We passed the first Berlin signalling light

nearly three-quarters of an hour ago. We slowed down after

that, of course."

The priest turned his head suddenly and made a movement with it

downwards. The Cardinal leaned forward again and peered through

the open shutter.

"I think they are coming up at last," he said, drawing his head

back. "Hush! Listen, Monsignor."

The priest listened with all his might. At first he heard nothing

except the faint whistle of the wind somewhere in the roof. Then

he heard three or four metallic noises, as if from the depths of

a bottomless hit, faint and minute; and then, quite distinctly,

three strokes of a bell.

The Cardinal nodded.

"They are starting," he said. "They have kept us long enough."

He slipped along the seat to where his scarlet cincture and cap

lay, and began to put these on.

Monsignor sprang across and lifted down the great Roman

cloak from its peg.

"You had better get ready yourself," said the Cardinal. "They

will be here in a moment."

As the priest slipped on his second shoe, a sound suddenly

stopped him dead for an instant. It was the sound of voices

talking somewhere beneath in the fog. Then he finished, and stood

up, just as there slid cautiously upwards, like a whale coming up

to breathe, past the window by which the Cardinal was now

standing cloaked and hatted, first a shining roof, then a row of

little ventilators, and finally a line of windows against which a

dozen faces were pressed. He saw them begin to stir as the

scarlet of the Cardinal met their eyes.

"We can sit down again," said the old man, smiling. "The rest is

a matter for the engineers."

It seemed strange afterwards to the priest how little real or

active terror he felt. He was conscious of a certain sickly

sensation, and of a sourish taste on his lips, as he licked them

from time to time; but scarcely more than this, except perhaps of

a sudden shivering spasm that shook him once or twice as the

fog-laden breeze poured in upon him.

He sat there watching through the windows in a kind of

impassivity, as much as he could see of the method by which the

racing-boat was attached by long, rigid rods to the steady

floating raft that had risen from beneath. (He was even

interested to observe that these rigid rods were of telescopic

design, and were elongated from their own interiors. One of them

pushed forward once to within a foot of the windows; then the

tapering end seemed to fall apart into two hooked ends,

singularly like a lean finger and thumb with roughened surfaces.

This, in its turn, rose out of sight, and he heard it slide

along the roof overhead, till it caught some projection and

there clenched.)

So the process went on, slowly and deliberately. The driver

still remained at his post, answering once or twice questions

put to him from some invisible person outside. The Cardinal

still sat, motionless and silent, on the opposite seat. Then,

after perhaps ten minutes' delay, a sensation of descending

became perceptible.

His fear, such as it was, took a new form, as presently through

the thinning fog he became aware that the earth was approaching.

The first clear indication of this was the sound of a clock

striking. He counted the strokes carefully, and immediately

forgot what it was that he had counted. Then, as he watched with

straining eyes for buildings or towers to make their appearance,

the movement stopped; there was a faint jarring sensation, then

the sound of trampling feet, then a heavy shock. He had forgotten

that stages were used.

The Cardinal stood up.

"Come, Monsignor," he said, and gave his hand to him.

So the two stood a moment longer. Then the footsteps sounded on

the boat; a shadow fell across the glass of the stern-door. The

door opened, letting in a rush of foggy air, and two men in

uniform came swiftly inside.

"Your name and your business, gentlemen?" said the foremost

shortly, in excellent English.

"I am come on behalf of the Holy Father," said the Cardinal

steadily. "My name is Cardinal Bellairs. This is my secretary,

Monsignor Masterman. He is not an envoy."

"Exactly," said the man. "That is all in order. You were seen by

our guard-boats. Will you step this way?"

A bridge had been thrown across from the raft to the racing-boat,

and the latter was now attached to an immense stage whose sides

ran down into the fog. The stage-platform was crowded with men,

some in official uniform, some in blouses; but a way was kept

clear for the visitors, and they passed across without any actual

show of hostility or resentment. Monsignor noticed but one

detail--that no salutation of any kind was given; and as they

took their seats in the lift, with the two officials close beside

them, he heard guttural conversation break out, and, he thought,

one loud laugh. The doors were latched, and the lift dropped.

The speed was so great that it would have been impossible to see

anything of the town into which they descended, even had the fog

been absent. As it was, Monsignor saw nothing except the sudden

darkening of the air round them. Then as the speed slackened he

saw the side of some great building not twenty yards away. Then

the lift stopped and the doors were opened.

A group of men stood there, with something of an expectant air in

their stolid faces. All these were in uniform of some

description; one stood a little in advance of the rest and held a

paper in his hand.

"Cardinal Bellairs?" he said, also in English. "And

Monsignor Masterman?"

The Cardinal bowed.

"We had information from Rome last night. I understand you have a

communication from the Powers?"

"From the Holy Father, whom the European Powers have appointed to

represent them."

"It is the same thing," said the man brusquely. "The Council are

waiting to receive you. Kindly follow me."

The official who had brought them down stepped forward.

"I understand, sir, that this gentleman" (he indicated the

priest) "is not an envoy."

"Is that so?" asked the other.

"It is."

"Very good. I only have authority to introduce the envoy.

Monsignor Masterman will be good enough to follow the other

gentleman. Your Eminence, will you come with me?"

(VI)

On looking back afterwards on the whole experience, that which

stood out as most shocking in it all, to the priest's mind, was

the abominable speed with which the tragedy was accomplished. It

was merciful, perhaps, that it was so, for even the half-hour or

so which elapsed before the priest had any more news dragged

itself to an intolerable length.

He walked up and down the little furnished room--some kind of

parlour, he understood, attached to a government building seized

by the revolutionaries, guarded, he knew, by a couple of men in

the passage, whose voices he occasionally heard--in a sort of

dull agony, far more torturing than positive objective fear.

He tried to comfort himself by retelling to himself the story of

the last few days; reminding himself how, after the first

outburst, when the police had been shot down by these new weapons

of which he understood nothing, and the palace had been taken,

and the city reduced to a state of defenceless terror--the

revolutionaries had sternly repressed the second attempted

massacre in a manner not unworthy of real civilization.

A great deal of the whole story was unintelligible to him. He

just knew the outlines. First, it was obvious that the

revolution had been planned in all its details months before.

There had been, soon after the Emperor's conversion, a great

access of other converts, accompanied by a dispersal to other

countries, notably America, of innumerable people of the lower

classes who were known as Socialists. All this was looked upon

by the authorities as natural, and as actually reassuring. There

had been a few protests against the new proposals with regard to

legislation; but not enough to rouse any suspicion that violence

would be attempted. Finally, when the organized emigration was

beginning, and even the most pessimistic politicians were

beginning to regard the situation as saved, without the

slightest warning the blow had been struck, obviously by the

directions of an international council whose very existence had

not been suspected.

As to the details of the revolution itself he was even more

vague, for the understanding of it depended on an acquaintance

with the internal arrangements of Berlin, by which a kind of

interior citadel, not outwardly fortified in any way, yet held in

its compass all those immense "power-stations" by which, in the

present day, every town was defended. (He did not know exactly

what these "power-stations" were, beyond the fact that they were

the lineal successors of the old gun-forts, and controlled an

immense number of mines both within the city and without it, as

well as some kind of "electric ray," which was the modern

substitute for cannon.) Well, it was this "citadel," including

the Emperor's palace, that had been suddenly seized by the

revolutionaries, obviously by the aid of treachery. And the thing

was done. It was impossible for the other Powers, or even for the

German air-navy itself, to wipe the whole place out of existence,

since it was known that the Emperor himself was in the hands of

the rebels. (It was a bald story, as he had heard it; yet he

reflected that great _coups_ usually were extremely and

unexpectedly simple.)

Finally, there were the terms demanded--terms which the Powers

were unanimous in rejecting, since they included the formal

disestablishment of the Church throughout Europe and the

complete liberty of the Press, with guarantees that these should

continue. The alternative to the acceptance of these terms was

the execution of the Emperor and formal war declared upon

Europe--a war which, of course, could have but one ending, but

which, until that end came, would mean, under the new conditions

of warfare, an almost unimaginable destruction of life and

property, especially since (as was known) the Socialists

repudiated all the international laws of warfare. The defiance

was, of course, a ridiculous and a desperate one, but it was the

defiance of a savage child who held all modern resources in his

hands and knew how to use them. There was also possible, as some

said, a rising all over the civilized world, should the movement

meet with success.

So much, in brief, was what Monsignor Masterman knew. So much,

indeed, was now public property all the world over, and it was

not reassuring.

Certainly he feared death for himself; yet, as he paced up and

down, he could honestly and sincerely tell himself that this was

not foremost in his mind. Rather it was a sense of bewildered

shock and horror that such things could have broken in upon that

orderly, disciplined world with which he had become familiar. It

was this horror that hung over him--its impression deepened by

the bleak April morning, the nervous strain under which he

suffered, the brusque discourtesy of the men who had received

him, and the knowledge that scarcely thirty-six hours before an

envoy who had come alone and peaceably had been done to death in

this silent city. And the horror also centred for him now, as in

a symbol, in the old Cardinal whom he was learning to love.

He framed, as men do when the imagination is stimulated to the

highest pitch, a dozen possible events--each seen by him

mentally, clear, in a picture. He constructed for himself the

Cardinal's return with news of a compromise, with an announcement

at least of delay. (He knew a few of the proposals that were to

be made by sanction of the Pope.) Or he saw him coming back,

anxious and perturbed, with nothing decided. Or he imagined

himself being sent for in haste. . . . And there were other

pictures, more terrible; and against these he strove with all his

will, telling himself that it was inconceivable that such things

should be. Yet not one of his imaginings was as terrible as the

event itself. . . .

It came swift and sudden, without the faintest sign or premonition.

As he turned in his endless pacings, down at the farther end of

the room, his ears for the instant filled with the clatter of

some cart outside the open, barred windows, a figure came swiftly

into the room, without the sound of a footstep to warn him.

Behind he could make out two faces waiting. . . .

It was the Cardinal who stood there, upright and serene as ever,

with a look in his eyes that silenced the priest. He lifted his

hand on which shone his great amethyst, and at the motion,

scarcely knowing what he did, the priest was on his knees.

"_Benedictio Dei omnipotentis Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,

descendat super te, et maneat semper._"

That was all; not a word more.

And as the priest sprang up with a choking cry, the slender

figure was gone, and the door shut and locked.

CHAPTER III

(I)

All day long there had hung a strange silence over the city,

unlike in its quality that ordinary comparative quiet of modern

towns to which the man who had lost his memory had become by now

accustomed. He knew well by now the gentle, almost soothing, hum

of busy streets, as the traffic and the footsteps went over the

noiseless pavements, and the air murmured with the clear subdued

notes of the bells and the melodious horns of the swifter

vehicles; all this had something of a reassuring quality,

reminding the listener that he lived in a world of men, active

and occupied indeed, but also civilized and self-controlled.

But the silence of this inner quarter of Berlin was completely

different. Its profoundness was sinister and suggestive. Now and

again came a rapid hooting note, growing louder and more

insistent, as some car, bound on revolutionary work, tore up some

street out of sight at forty miles an hour and away again into

silence. Several times he heard voices in sharp talk pass beneath

his window. Occasionally somewhere overhead in the great

buildings sounded the whir of a lift, a footstep, the throwing up

of a window. And to each sound he listened eagerly and intently,

ignorant as to whether it might not mark the news of some fresh

catastrophe, the tidings of some decision that would precipitate

his world about him.

As to the progress of events he knew nothing at all.

Since that horrible instant when the door had closed in his face

and the Cardinal had gone again as mysteriously as he had come--now

three days ago--he had heard no hint that could tell him how things

developed. He had not even dared to ask the taciturn servant in

uniform who brought him food as to the fate of the old man.

For he knew with a certainty as clear as if he had seen the dreadful

thing done, that his friend and master was dead--dead, as the

Revolutionary Committee had said he would be, if he came with any

message other than that of submission. As to the manner of his death

he dared not even conjecture. It would be swift, at least. . . .

Ten thousand thoughts, recurring and recurring, like pictures

thrown on a wall, ran past his attention as the hours went by. He

saw the gathering of armaments--the horizon tinged by the

gathering war-vessels of the air--the advance, the sudden storm

of battle, the gigantic destruction from these vast engines of

power of which he had learned nothing but their ghastly

potentialities. Or he saw the advance of this desperate garrison,

dispersing this way and that for their war upon the world--silent

vessels, moving in the clouds, to Rome, to London, to Paris and

Versailles, each capable of obliterating a city. Or he saw,

again, the submission of the world to the caprice of these

desperate children who feared nothing--not even death itself--who

crouched like an ape in a powder-magazine, lighted match in hand,

careless as to whether or no themselves died so long as the world

died with them.

He formulated nothing; concluded nothing; he rejected every

conjecture which temporarily constructed itself in his almost

passive mind. He did not even yet fully understand that the

question he had asked of himself months before--the question that

had tortured him so keenly--as to whether these Christians who

ruled had not forgotten how to suffer--had been answered with

dreadful distinctness. He just perceived that the young Roman

prince had been gallant; that the old man had been more gallant

still, since those to whom he came had already proved that they

would keep their word. And now the third day was drawing to an

end, and by midnight suspense would be over.

The fog still hung over the city; but towards sunset it lifted a

little, and he raised his heavy head from his breast as he lay,

half sitting, half lying, on the tumbled sofa and blankets on

which he had slept, to see the red sunlight on the wall above

him. It was a curious room to a man who had grown accustomed to

modern ways; there was a faded carpet on the floor, paper on the

walls, and the old-fashioned electric globes hung, each on its

wire, from the whitewashed ceiling. He saw that it must be a

survival, or perhaps a deliberate archaicism. . . .

The sunlight crept slowly up the wall. . . .

Then the door was unlocked from the outside, and he turned his

head, to see James Hardy come smiling towards him.

(II)

"Good evening, Monsignor. I am ashamed that I have not paid you a

visit before. But we have been very busy these days."

He sat down without offering to shake hands.

The priest saw, with one of those sudden inexplicable intuitions

more certain than any acquired knowledge, two things: first,

that his having been left alone for three days had been by

deliberation and not carelessness; and second, that this visit

to him only a few hours before the time of truce expired was

equally deliberate. His brain was too confused for him to draw

any definite conclusion from these facts; but he made at least

one provisional decision, as swift as lightning, that he must

hold his tongue.

"You have had an anxious time, I am afraid," went on the other.

"But so have we all. You must bear no malice, Monsignor."

The priest said nothing. He looked between his half-closed

eyelids at the heavy, clean-shaven, clever face of the man who

sat opposite him, the strong, capable and rather humorous mouth,

his close-cut hair turning a little grey by the ears, watching

for any sign of discomposure. But there was none at all.

The man glanced up, caught his eye, and smiled a little.

"Well, I am afraid you're not altogether pleased with us. But you

must bear in mind, Monsignor, that you've driven--" (he corrected

his phrase)--"you drove us into a corner. I regret the deaths of

the two envoys as much as you yourself. But we were forced to

keep our word. Obviously your party did not believe us, or they

would have communicated by other means. Well, we had to prove our

sincerity." (He paused). "And we shall have to prove it again

to-night, it seems."

Again there was silence.

"I think you're foolish to take this line, Monsignor," went on

the other briskly--"this not speaking to me, I mean. I'm quite

willing to tell you all I know, if you care to ask me. I've not

come to bully you or to triumph over you. And after all, you

know, we might easily have treated you as an envoy, too. To be

quite frank, it was I who pleaded for you. . . . Oh! not out of

any tenderness; we have got past that. You Christians have taught

us that. But I thought that so long as we kept our word we need

not go beyond it. And it's proved that I'm right. . . . Aren't

you curious to know why?"

The priest looked at him again.

"Well, we are going to send you back after midnight. You will

have to witness the last scene, I am afraid, so that you can give

a true account of it--the Emperor's death, I mean."

He paused again, waiting for an answer. Then he stood up, at

last, it seemed, pricked into impatience.

"Kindly come with me, Monsignor," he said abruptly. "I have to

take you before the Council."

(III)

It was a large hall, resembling a concert-room, into which the

priest came at last, an hour later, under the escort of James

Hardy and a couple of police, and he had plenty of time to

observe it, as he stood waiting by the little door through which

he stepped on to the back of the platform.

This platform stood at the upper end of the hall, and was set with

a long semicircle of chairs and desks, as if for judges, and these

were occupied by perhaps thirty persons, dressed, he saw, in dull

colours, all alike. The dresses seemed curiously familiar; he

supposed he must have seen them in pictures. Then he remembered a

long while ago Father Jervis telling him that the Socialists

resented the modern developments in matters of costume.

The President's desk and seat were raised a little above the

others, but from behind the priest could see nothing of him but

his black gown and his rather long iron-grey hair; he seemed to

be answering in rapid German some question that one of his

colleagues had just put to him.

The rest of the hall was almost empty. A table stood at the foot

of the platform, and here were three or four of the usual

recording machines; a dozen men sat here too, some writing, some

listening, leaning back in their chairs. In the middle, on the

opposite side of the table, stood a structure resembling a

witness-box, ascended by two steps, railed in on the three other

sides. A man with a pointed grey beard was leaving the box as the

priest came in. Standing about the hall also were perhaps twenty

other persons apparently listening to the President or waiting

their turn. There were tall doors at the end of the hall, closed

and guarded by police, and in the middle of each of the long

sides two other doors, also closed, communicating with other

rooms and passages, in one of which the priest had waited just

now until the Council could see him.

Except for the rapid, heavy voice of the President the hall was

very quiet, and from the very silence and motionlessness of those

present there exhaled a certain air of tenseness. It would have

been impossible for any intelligent person not to notice it, and

for the priest, with his nerves strung, as they now were, to an

extreme pitch of sensitiveness and attention, the atmosphere was

overwhelmingly significant. Of what it signified he had no idea,

beyond the knowledge he already possessed--that the hours were

running out, and that midnight would see a decisive event which,

though it must mean ultimately the ruin of every person present,

might, for all that, change the line of the world's development.

A protest so desperate as this could not but have a tremendous

effect upon human sentiment. He had caught a glimpse an hour before,

as he whirled through the streets, far up against the luminous slay

westwards, of a string of floating specks, which he knew to be the

guard-boats, strung out now, night and day, in a vast circle round

the city. At midnight they would surely move. . . .

Dark had already fallen outside, but the hall was as light as day

with the hidden electric burners above the cornices, and he could

see not only the faces, but the very expressions that

characterized them. One thing at least was common to them all--a

silent, fierce excitement. . . .

It would be about ten minutes before the priest's turn came to

face the Council. It seemed that the member to whom the

President was speaking was not satisfied, and question and

answer, all in rapid, unintelligible German, went on without

intermission. Once or twice there was a murmur of applause, and

more than once the President beat his hand heavily and

emphatically upon the desk before him to enforce his point. The

priest guessed that the unanimity was not perhaps as perfect as

the world had been given to believe. However, guessing was

useless. The President leaned back at last, and Hardy stepped

forward to his chair and whispered. The President nodded, and

the next moment, at a sign from Hardy, the two police urged the

priest forward by the arms across the platform, down the steps,

and so round to the right up into the witness-box. Then the

President, who had still been whispering behind his hand, turned

abruptly in his chair and faced him.

Monsignor related afterwards what an extraordinary moment that

had been. His nerves were already tight-stretched and his

expectation was at the highest; but the face of this man who now

looked at him (tremendous though he knew such a personality must

be, which could conceive and drive through such a revolt as

this),--the face of him was beyond all imagining.

In the fashion of the day it was clean-shaven, and the absence of

hair, except where that of his head framed the face, increased

the impressions of those lines and shadow. It was a priestly

face, saw Monsignor, with all the power and searchingness of one

who can deal with living souls; but the face of a fallen priest.

In complexion it was sallow, but the sallowness of health, not of

weakness; full-shaped, but without being fat; the lips were

straight and thin, the nose sharp and jutting and well curved,

and the black eyes blazed at him with immense power from beneath

heavy brows. His hair was brushed straight back from the

forehead, and fell rather long behind. The face resembled a

carefully modelled mask, through the eyes of which alone the

tremendous life was visible.

The priest met those eyes straight for an instant, then he

lowered his own, knowing that he could not be wholly himself if

he looked that man in the face.

He was surprised to hear words of English uttered. He looked up

again, and there was Hardy speaking, from beside the

President's chair.

"Monsignor, you would not answer me just now. Now that I am

speaking in the Council's name, will you consent to do so?"

"I will answer what I think right to answer."

There was a touch of amusement in Hardy's voice as he went on.

"You need not be afraid, Monsignor. We do not extort answers by

the rack. I only wished to know if you would be reasonable."

The priest said nothing.

"Very good, then. . . . First we will tell you our intentions. At

midnight, as you know, we keep our word, and the Emperor will have

to go the way of the others. It is regrettable, but the Christians

do not seem to understand even yet that we are in earnest. You

will have to be present at that scene, I am sorry to say; but you

can comfort yourself by ministering to your co-religionist. He has

not had a priest admitted to him since his arrest.

"Immediately afterwards you will be set at liberty, and put on

board the air-boat on which you travelled from Rome, with the same

driver who brought you here, on one single condition. That

condition is that you go straight to the Holy Father, tell him all

that you have seen, and take with you one or two little objects."

He paused and beckoned to some one behind. A man came forward

with a little box which he laid on the table. Hardy opened it.

"This is the box you are to take. Yes; I see that you recognize

them. They are the biretta, the skullcap, the cross, and the ring

of the late Cardinal Bellairs. There are also in this box the

ring and a medal belonging to the late Prince Otteone. . . . You

will take these with you as pledges of what you say. . . . Will

you consent to do this?"

The priest bowed. For the moment he was unable to speak.

"You will also tell the Holy Father," went on the other,

replacing, as he spoke, the things in the box, "what you have

seen of our dispositions. You will say that you saw us entirely

resolute and unafraid. We do not fear anybody, Monsignor--not

anything at all; I think you understand that by now.

"You will have a letter, of course, to take with you. It will

contain our final terms. Because--(and I assure you that you are

the first of the outside world to hear this news)--because we

have decided to extend our patience for one more week. We shall,

during that week, in order to prove the genuineness of our

intentions, make a raid upon a certain city and, we hope, destroy

it. (Naturally, I shall not inform you where that city stands.)

And if, at the end of that week, our former terms are not

accepted, we shall carry out our promises to the full. You may

also add," he went on more deliberately, "that our party is

represented in every capital of Europe, and that these may be

expected to act in the same way as that in which we have acted,

as soon as the week expires. We have no objection to telling you

this: our plans are completely made, and no precautions on your

side can hinder them. Is that clear, Monsignor?"

"Yes," said the priest.

"You are satisfied that we mean what we say?"

"I suppose so."

Hardy's manner changed a little. Up to now he had been speaking

coldly and sharply, except where once or twice a slightly

ironical tone had come into his voice. Now he bent forward a

little with his hands upon the table, and his tone became a

trifle friendly.

"Now there are just one or two questions that the Council wish me

to put to you."

Monsignor glanced up at the circle of watching faces, and as he

looked at the President, he could have sworn that a look of

displeasure came over the man's face.

"Well, our first question is this (I dare say you will not answer

it; but if you will oblige us, we shall be grateful): Can you

tell us whether, when you left Rome, the Holy Father, or the

European Powers, showed any signs of yielding?"

The priest drew a breath.

"I am absolutely sure," he said quietly, "that they had no idea

of yielding, and that they never will."

"Why did they send envoys then?"

"They were willing to make other concessions."

"What were these concessions?"

Monsignor hesitated.

"I am not an envoy; I have no power to say."

"Do you know what they were?"

"Yes."

"Why will you not say? Is it not the wish of the Powers to

come to terms?"

"It was their wish."

"Do you mean that it is so no longer?"

"I cannot imagine it being their wish any longer."

"Why?"

"Because you murdered the two envoys they sent," said the

priest, beginning suddenly to shake all over with uncontrollable

nervous excitement.

"Have you any reason for saying that?"

"I know what I would do myself under such circumstances."

"And that is----"

The priest straightened himself, and seized the rail before him

to steady himself.

"I would wipe out of existence every soul that was concerned in those

murders. I would have no more civilized dealings with savages."

There was a sudden movement and murmur in the circle on the

platform. From the intentness with which they had followed the

questions and answers, Monsignor saw that they understood English

well enough. One man sprang to his feet. But simultaneously the

President was on his own, and with a gesture and a sharp word or

two restored order.

"That is very deplorable violence," said Hardy. "But it is

most Christian."

"I am beginning to think so myself," said the priest.

"Well, well," said the other, tapping the table irritably. "We

must get on----"

A door behind him, communicating with the offices behind the

hall, opened suddenly as he spoke these words, and he broke off.

Monsignor followed the direction of his eyes, and saw a man enter

who was plainly in a state of extreme excitement. He was across

the platform in three or four quick steps, and laid a paper

before the President, pushing by Hardy to do so. Then he stood

back abruptly and waited. The President took up the paper

deliberately and read it. Then he laid it down again, and a

question too was asked smartly in the same rapid German, and

answered as smartly.

Then he turned, and creasing the paper between his fingers as he

spoke, uttered a sentence that brought every man to his feet.

(IV)

In the confusion that followed Monsignor stood for a while

disregarded. The man who had brought the message, had, after one

more sentence snapped at him over the President's shoulder,

vanished once more. For the rest--they were up now, forming into

groups, talking excitedly, dissolving again, and re-forming. Only

two remained quiet--Hardy and the President; the latter still in

his chair, staring out moodily, with the Englishman whispering

into his ear. Then Hardy too stood back and stared about him. One

or two men came up, but he waved them aside. Then his eyes fell

upon the priest, still waiting: he slipped away from the chair,

came down the steps, and beckoned to him.

Monsignor was in a whirl; but he turned and came obediently out

of his place into the corner by the steps. He noticed as he came

that even those who guarded the lower doors were talking.

"There's news," whispered Hardy sharply. "Another envoy is

coming. Who is it?"

The priest shook his head. "I have no idea."

"He'll be here in ten minutes," said Hardy. "He passed the line

of guard-boats five minutes ago. Monsignor----"

"Yes?"

"Just come behind here a moment. I want to have a word with you."

As they crossed the platform he slipped off again to the

President's chair, whispered a word to him, and returned.

"Come through here," he whispered.

Together they passed through the door at the back, and so into

one of the little rooms through which they had come together

half an hour before. There he closed both doors carefully and

came up to the priest.

"Monsignor," he said, and hesitated.

The priest looked at him curiously. He began to see that a

disclosure was coming.

"Monsignor, I have not been hard on you. . . . I came as soon as

I could. . . ."

"Well?"

"I . . . I don't know what's going to happen. The envoy's coming

at the last hour. The Council is in a very divided state of

mind. You saw that?"

"Well?"

"They're wavering. It's no use denying it. They'd accept almost

anything. It's perfectly desperate. They see that now."

He was fingering the priest's sleeve by now, and his eyes were

full of a pitiable anxiety.

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Well, they'll say I was responsible--if the negotiations come to

anything, I mean. They'll say I urged them on. They'll sacrifice

me--me and the President. They'll say they never would have gone

to such lengths----What's that noise?"

Monsignor jerked his head impatiently. He began to see light.

"Well," went on the other nervously, "I want you to speak for me,

if necessary--_if necessary_, you understand? You're a Christian,

Monsignor. . . You'll stand by me."

The priest waited before answering; as the situation took

shape before his eyes, he began to understand more and more

clearly; and yet----

A voice called out sharply beyond the door, and Hardy leapt to

the handle, beckoning with his head; and as the priest obediently

followed, he gave him one more look of entreaty and opened the

door. The President stood there. The great man, more impressive

than ever now, as his great height showed itself, ran his eyes

slowly over the two.

"Come back to the hall," he said, so slowly that even the priest

understood it, and turned.

"The envoy's coming," whispered Hardy breathlessly, as he paused

before following. "You'll remember, Monsignor? . . ."

It was hardly a minute since they had left, and yet all confusion

had vanished. Every man was back in his seat, with that same

impassive and yet attentive air that they had worn when Monsignor

first saw them. Yet, with his new knowledge, it seemed to him as

if he could detect, beneath all that, something of the

indecisiveness of which he had just learned. Certainly they were

under admirable discipline; yet he began to see that even

socialistic discipline had its limitations.

The President was already in the act of sitting down, Hardy was

stepping up behind him, and the priest was still hesitating by

the door, when down at the lower end of the hall there was a

movement among those who guarded it, the great doors opened, and

a figure walked straight in, without looking to right or left.

He came on and up; and as he came the hush fell deeper. It was

impossible even to see his face; he was in a long travelling

cloak that fell to his feet; a travelling cap covered his head;

and about his throat and face was thrown a great white scarf,

such as the air-travellers often use. He came on, still without

looking to right or left, walking as if he had some kind of right

to be there, straight up to the witness-box, ascended the steps,

and stood there for an instant motionless.

Then he unwound his scarf, lifted his cap and dropped it beside

him, threw back his cloak with a single movement, and stood

there--a white figure from head to foot, white capped. . . .

There was a great sigh from the men on the platform; two or three

sprang to their feet, and sat down again as suddenly. Only the

President did not move. Then there fell an absolute silence.

(V)

"Eh well," said the Pope in delicate French; "I am

arrived in time then."

He looked round from side to side, smiling and peering--this

little commonplace-looking Frenchman, who had in his hand at this

period of the world's history an incalculably greater power than

any living being on earth had ever before wielded--Father of

Princes and Kings, Arbiter of the East, Father as well as

Sovereign Lord of considerably more than a thousand million

souls. He stood there, utterly alone with a single servant

waiting out there, half a mile away, at the flying-stage, in the

presence of the Council who in the name of the malcontents of the

human race had declared war on the world of which he was now all

but absolute master. No European nation could pass a law which he

had not the right to veto; not one monarch claimed to hold his

crown except at the hands of this man. And the East--even the

pagan East--had learned at last that the Vicar of Christ was the

Friend of Peace and Progress.

And he stood here, smiling and peering at the faces.

"I come as my own envoy," said the Pope presently, adjusting his

collar. "'The King said, "They will reverence My Son,"' so I am

come as the Vicar of that Son. You have killed my two messengers,

I hear. Why have you done that?"

There was no answer. From where the priest stood he could hear

laboured breathing on all sides, but not a man moved or spoke.

"Eh well then, I have come to offer you a last opportunity of

submitting peacefully. In less than an hour from now the armed

truce expires. After that we shall be compelled to use force. We

do not wish to use force; but society must now protect itself. I

do not speak to you in the name of Christ; that name means

nothing to you. So I speak in the name of society, which you

profess to love. Submit, gentlemen, and let me be the bearer of

the good news."

He spoke still in that absolutely quiet and conversational tone

in which he had begun. One hand rested lightly on the rail

before him; the other gently fingered the great cross on his

breast, naturally and easily, as the priest had seen him finger

it once before in his own palace. It was unthinkable that such a

weight in the world's history rested on so slight a foundation.

Yet for a few frozen moments no one else moved or spoke. It is

probable that the scene they witnessed seemed to them

unsubstantial and untrue.

Then, as the priest still stood, fascinated and overwhelmed, he

noticed a movement in the great chair before him. Very slowly

the President shifted his position, clasping his hands loosely

before him and bending forward a little. Then a dialogue began,

of which every word remained in the priest's mind as if written

there. It was in French throughout, the smooth delicacy of the

Pope's intonation contrasting strangely with the heavy German

accent of the other.

"You come as an envoy, sir. Do you then accept our terms?"

"I accept no terms. I offer them."

"And those?"

"Absolute and unconditional submission to myself."

"You received our notice as to the treatment of such envoys?"

(There was a rustle in the hall, but the other paid no attention.)

"But certainly."

"You come armed then--protected in some manner?"

The Pope smiled. He made a little opening gesture with his hands.

"I come as you see me; no more."

"Your armies are behind you?"

"The European air-fleets start from every quarter at midnight."

"With your consent?"

"But certainly."

"You understand that this means immeasurable bloodshed?"

"But certainly."

"You defend that?"

"My Master came bringing not peace, but a sword. But I am not

here to teach theology."

"But until midnight----"

"Until midnight I am in your hands."

Again the silence fell, deeper than ever. Monsignor took his eyes

off the Pope's face for an instant to glance round what he could

see of the circle. All were staring steadily, some half sunk down

in their seats, others stretched forward, clasping the outer

edges of the desks with strained hands, all staring at this quiet

white figure who faced them. He looked again at that face. If

there had been in it, not merely agitation or fear, but even

unusual paleness, if there had been in those hands, one of which

bore the great Papal ring, not merely trembling, but even a sign

of constriction or tenseness, it might well have been, thought

the priest afterwards, that the scene would have ended very

differently. But the naturalness and ease of the pose were

absolute. He stood there, the hands lightly laid one upon the

other, his face palish certainly, but not colourless. There was

even a slight flush in his cheeks from his quick walk up the long

hall. It was a situation in which the weight of a hair would turn

the scale. . . .

Then the President lifted his head slightly, and a tremor ran

round the circle.

"I see no reason for delay," he said heavily. "Our terms were

clear. This man came with the full knowledge of them and the

consequences of disregarding them----"

The Pope lifted his hand.

"One instant, Mr. President----"

"I see no reason----"

"Gentlemen-----"

A murmur of consent rolled round the thirty persons sitting there,

so unmistakable that the man who up to now had ruled them all with

a hint or gesture dropped his head again. Then the Pope went on.

"Gentlemen, I have really no more to say than that which I have

said. But I beg of you to reconsider. You propose to kill me as

you have killed my messengers. Well, I am at your disposal. I did

not expect to live so long when I set out from Rome this morning.

But, then, what will you gain? At midnight every civilized nation

is in arms. And I will tell you what perhaps you do not

know--that the East is supporting Europe. The Eastern fleets are

actually on their way at this moment that I speak. You propose to

reform Society. I will not argue as to those reforms; I say only

that they are too late. I will not argue as to the truth of the

Christian religion. I say only that the Christian religion is

already ruling this world. You kill me? My successor will reign

to-morrow. . . . You kill the Emperor; his son, now in Rome, at

that moment begins to reign. Gentlemen, what do you gain? Merely

this--that in days to come your names will be foul in all men's

mouths. . . . At this moment you have an opportunity to submit;

in a few minutes it will be too late."

He paused a moment.

Then, to the priest's eyes, it seemed as if some subtle change

passed over his face and figure. Up to now he had spoken,

conversationally and quietly, as a man might speak to a company

of friends. But, though he had not noticed it at the time, he

remembered later how there had been gathering during his little

speech a certain secret intensity and force like the kindling of

a fire. In this pause it swept on and up, flushing his face with

sudden colour, lifting his hands as on a rising tide, breaking

out suddenly in his eyes like fire, and in his voice in passion.

The rest saw it too; and in that tense atmosphere it laid hold

of them as with a giant's hand; it struck their tight-strung

nerves; it broke down the last barriers on which their own fears

had been at work.

"My children," cried the White Father, no longer a Frenchman now,

but a very Son of Man. "My children, do not break my heart! So

long and hard the labour--two thousand years long--two thousand

years since Christ died; and you to wreck and break the peace that

comes at last; that peace into which through so great tribulations

the people of God are entering at last. You say you know no God,

and cannot love Him; but you know man---poor wilful man--and would

you fling him back once more into wrath and passion and lust for

blood?--those lusts from which even now he might pass to peace if

it were not for you. You say that Christ is hard--that His Church

is cruel, and that man must have liberty? I too say that man must

have liberty--he was made for it; but what liberty would that be

which he has not learned to use?

"My children! have pity on men, and on me who strive to be their

father. Never yet has Christ reigned on earth till now--Christ who

Himself died, as I, His poor servant, am ready to die a thousand

times, if men may but themselves learn to die to self and to live

to Him. Have pity, then, on the world you love and hope to serve.

Serve it indeed as best you can. Let us serve it together!"

* * * * *

There was an instant's silence.

He stood there, his hands clasped in agony upon his cross. Then

he flung his hands wide in sudden, silent appeal.

There was a crash of an overturned desk; the crying out of

desperate voices all together, and as from the great tower

overhead there beat out the first stroke of midnight, the priest,

on his knees now, saw through eyes blind with tears, figures

moving and falling and kneeling towards that central form that

stood there, a white pillar of Royalty and sorrow, calling for

the last time all the world unto him.

* * * * *

But the President sat still at his desk, motionless.

CHAPTER IV

(I)

The sight on which the watcher's eyes rested, as he sat, hung

here in motionlessness above Westminster, a hundred feet higher

than the great St. Edward's Tower itself, was one not only

undreamed of, but even inconceivable to men of earlier days.

For it seemed as if some vast invisible air-way had been flung

straight from the midst of London, down away to the south-west

horizon, where it ran into the faint summer haze thirty miles

away. So level was the line held by the waiting volors on either

side--vast barges shining like silver, hung with the great

state-cloths of modern days--that it appeared as if the eye

itself were deceived, as if there were indeed a pavement of

crystal, a river of glass, so clear as itself to be unseen, on

whose surface floated this navy of a dream such as the world

itself had never imagined.

Now and again, like a fly on water, there darted from one side to

the other a tiny boat, in the blue and silver of the city guards,

or dropped, ducked and vanished; now and again it wheeled, and

came whirling up the line, vanishing at last in the long

perspective. But, for the rest, the monsters waited motionless in

the sunlight, their state-cloths, hung as from the old barges,

from stem to stern, as motionless as themselves, except when now

and again the summer breeze stirred from the south-west, lifting

the lazy streamers, wafting softly the heavy embroideries, and

stirring, even as the wind stirs the wheat, the glittering giants

that waited to do their Lord honour.

Opposite the air-barge where the watcher sat, perhaps a hundred

yards away, floated the royal boat, between a pair of warships,

one blaze of scarlet, blue, and gold, flapping out the Royal

Standard of England, and flashing the glass of the stern-cabin as

the great creature rocked gently now and again in the breeze; and

upon its deck rose up the canopy where the king and his consort

sat together, and the line of scarlet guards visible behind. On

the warships on either side the crew waited, the ship itself

dressed as for a review, every man motionless at his post, with

the crash of brass sounding from the lower decks. And so down the

line the eye of the watcher went again and again, fascinated by

the beauty and the glory, down past where the great ducal barges

hung, each in order, past the officers of state, past the

Parliament barges, down to where the boats, in numbers beyond all

reckoning, faded away into the haze.

To those who looked across to where the man himself sat the

sight must have been no less amazing. For he sat there, in his

new dress of Cardinal's scarlet, on the throne of ceremony

beneath his canopy with his attendants about him, on a wide deck

laid down with scarlet, its prow crowned by the silver cross--a

silent watching figure, with a splendour of romance about him

more suggestive even than the material glory that showed his

newly won dignity.

There was not a soul there in those astounding crowds, whether

among those who, hanging here between heaven and earth, awaited

for the ceremonial reception, the coming of him who was Vicar of

one and Lord of the other, or even among those incalculable

multitudes beneath, who packed the streets, crowded the flat roofs

and looked from every window. It was this man, they knew, this

tiny red figure, sitting solitary and motionless, who scarcely

three months before had stood before the revolutionary Council of

Berlin, of his own will and choice--who had gone there and faced

what seemed a certain death, for love of the old man whose body

now lay beneath the high-altar of the tremendous cathedral

beneath, and to whose office and honours he had succeeded, and for

the sake of the message he had carried. It was this man, alone of

the whole Christian world, who after looking into the face of

death, not for himself only, but for one who was dearer to him and

to that Christian world than life itself, had seen in one moment

the last storm roll away from human history for ever; who had seen

with his own eyes, Christ in His Vicar--_Princeps gloriosus_ come

at last--take the power and reign.

He too was conscious of all this, at least subconsciously, as he

sat motionless, a figure carved in ivory, a man who had found

peace at last. Here, in the contemplating brain, as with his eyes

he looked over the vast city of London, enormous and exquisite

beyond the dreams of either the reformers or the artists of a

century ago, seen as through the crystal of the summer air, as he

lifted his eyes now and again to the solemn barges opposite with

all that that dignity meant; above all as he looked down that

immeasurable line, that roadway of a god, along which presently

at least the Vicar of a God should come--all this and a thousand

memories more--memories of events such as few experience in a

lifetime, crowded into twelve months--passed in endless defile,

coherent and consistent at last under the pointing finger of Him

who had directed and evolved them all.

* * * * *

First, then, he saw himself, a child in knowledge, beginning life

at a point where many leave it off, plunged into a world that was

wholly strange and bewildering, a world which, though Christian in

name, seemed brutal in nature--brutal as the pagan empires were

brutal, yet without the excuse of their ignorance and passion.

Yet his intellect had seemed unable to refute the conclusion of

that march of events, that coherence of all ideals in a reasoned

whole, that fulfilment of instincts, that play of forces, upon

which, as upon a tide, Catholicism had floated to final victory

in the history of mankind. Not one element had seemed wanting;

and, as if to convince by sensible visions that brain which

shrank from merely argued logic, one by one he had seen for

himself as in a picture lesson, how at Versailles the social

tangle of an individual kingdom had once more submitted to

monarchy--that faulty mirror of the Divine government of the

world; how at Rome the stability of rival kingdoms, had found

itself once more in an arbiter whose kingdom was not of this

world; how finally, at Lourdes, in the widest circle of all, the

very science of the world itself had found itself not confronted

or opposed, but welcomed and transcended, by a school of thinkers

whose limitations lay only in the Infinite.

Once more then he had returned. Yet he had found that the head

and the imagination are not all; that man has a heart as well;

and that this has its demands no less inexorable that those of

intellect. And it was this heart of his that had seemed outraged

and silenced. For he had found in Christianity a synthesis of

ideas--a coincidence of knowledge--which, while satisfying that

head, emerged in a system to which his heart could be no party.

He had learned that "Christian society must protect itself"; and

he had seemed in this to find a denial of the essential Christian

doctrine that success comes only by defeat, and triumph by the

Cross. It had seemed to him that Christ had accepted the taunts

at last, had come down from the Cross and won the homage only of

those who did not understand Him. He had been quieted indeed for

a time, under the power of men who, whatever the rest of the

world might do, still thought that suffering was the better part.

Yet he had been quieted; not convinced.

Then he had sought a glimpse of the reverse of the picture--of

that which now seemed the sole alternative to that faith which he

feared--a glimpse only; yet full of significance. For he had seen

men to whom the better part of themselves seemed nothing; men who

walked with downcast eyes, piling mud and stones together, and

fancying the heap to be a very City of God.

Then, swift as grace itself, had come his answer.

He had seen men who had already all that the world could give,

men who, he had thought, lusted only for power, go to an unknown

and yet a certain death for the sake of a world over which he

had thought they cared only to reign--and go with smiles and

cheerfulness. And while he still hung in indecision, still

hesitated as to whether this or that were the Kingdom of

God--this shrinking dream of a world sufficient to itself, or

this brightening vision--then the last light had come, and he

had seen one to be victor by sheer self-abnegation, by contempt

of his own life, by the all but divine power of an ordinary man

walking in grace. There had been no rhetoric in that triumph, no

promises, no intoxication of phrases, no overwhelming

personality such as that which had faced him. There had been

nothing but a little quiet personage with a father's heart, who

by his very fidelity to his human type, by the absolute

simplicity of his presence had first climbed to the highest

point that man could reach, and then by that same fidelity and

simplicity, had cast himself down, and in the very hour that

followed the unconditional surrender which his enemies had made,

had granted them a measure of liberty such as they had never

dreamed of. In the name of the Powers, whose super-lord and

representative he was, he had abolished the death-penalty for

opinions subversive of society or faith, substituting in its

place deportation to the new American colonies; he had flung

open certain positions in Catholic states hitherto tenable only

on a profession of the Christian religion to all men alike; and

he had guaranteed to the new colonies in America a freedom from

external control and a place among civilized powers such as they

had never expected or asked.

This then was the new type of man who had at last conquered the

world. It was not a superman that had been waited for so long,

not a demigod armed with powers of light; not man raising

himself above his stature, building towers on earthly

foundations that should reach to heaven; but just man, utterly

true to himself and his instincts, walking humbly before his

God; looking for a city that has no foundations, coming down to

him out of heaven. It was supernature, not superman; grace and

truth transfiguring nature; not nature wrenching itself vainly

towards the stature of grace. It was man who could suffer, who

could reign; since he only who knows his weakness, dares to be

strong. . . . _Vicisti Galilaee!_

(II)

Slowly then he had come to see that, as had been told him long

before, the kingdoms of this world were already passing into the

hands of a higher dominion--and this was the significance of this

microcosm of those kingdoms that now lay before his bodily eyes.

There, opposite to him, in the blaze of sunlight, stood the

throne that for a thousand years had faced the throne of the

Fisherman, now as a dependant, now as a rebel--stable and fixed

at last in its allegiance. Here beneath him lay London, the

finest city in the world, where, if ever anywhere, had been tried

the experiment of a religion resting on the strength of a

national isolation instead of an universal supernationalism;--it

had been tried, and found wanting. Beneath him lay his own

cathedral, already blazing within like a treasure-cave, ready for

its consummation, without, tranquil and strong; behind him the

ancient Abbey once again in the hands of its children; far away

to the right, seeming strangely near in this lucid atmosphere,

hung, like a bubble, the great dome below which, as he knew,

stood the first basilican altar in London, newly consecrated as a

sign of its papal dignities and privileges. And beyond that again

London; and yet again London, a wonderful white city, gleaming at

a thousand points with cross and spire and dome and pinnacle,

patched with green in square and park and open space--London come

back again at last to her ancient faith and her old prosperity.

But this was not all.

For he knew and his imagination circled out wider and wider that

he might take it in--he knew that Europe itself at last dwelt

again with one mind in her house. There beyond the

channel--across which ten minutes ago, as the thunder of guns had

told him, the Arbiter of the World had come at last with his

train of kings behind him--there lay the huge continent, the

great plains of France, the forests of Germany, the giant tumbled

debris of Switzerland, the warm and radiant coasts, the ancient

world-stage of Italy, passionate Spain which never yet had wholly

lost her love. There all lay, at one at last, each her own, with

her own liberties and customs and traditions, yet each in the

service of her neighbour, since each and all alike lay beneath

the Peace of God.

Still wider fled his thought. . . . He saw to the southwards and

far away westwards across the seas, how now this country, now

that, flew its flag and administered its laws, yet how those

flags all together saluted the Crossed Keys; how those laws,

however diverse, bowed all together before the Law of Liberty;

and how there, farther yet, already the gates of the East had

rolled back, and how there peered out across half the world the

patient seeking faces of those old children of earth, awakened at

last to destinies greater than their own--awakened, not as men

had once feared, by the thunder of Christian guns, but by the

call of the Shepherd to sheep that were not of His Fold. . . .

So there the vision lay before him--this man who had lost his

memory and had found a greater gift instead.

* * * * *

An old priest in the white fur of a canon came gently up the deck

from behind. . . .

"Your Eminence . . ." he said, "they have signalled up the

line. . . . I thought, perhaps----"

The new Cardinal started as one from a dream.

"What is it, Father Jervis? . . ."

The old man looked at him closely; then he laid his hand on his arm.

"Your Eminence, the King is waiting. Do you not remember? Your

Eminence was to give the signal."

Beneath, like huge voices speaking a single word all at once,

roared the old guns from the Tower and Greenwich and the palaces.

The Cardinal shook his head.

"I . . . I forget," he said; "I was thinking. . . . What am I to do?"

The old priest looked at him again earnestly, without speaking.

Then he leaned forward closer still.

"Will your Eminence authorize me to give the signals?"

"Yes, yes, Father . . . anything. What am I to do? Have I

to say anything?"

His eyes had a look of dawning terror in them as he glanced from

side to side. The priest once again laid his hand on the

lace-covered wrist and held it there steadily.

"Nothing at all, your Eminence. You have simply to sit still. I

will arrange everything."

Still standing there, he turned slightly and made a sharp gesture

behind the throne with his left hand. A bell sounded instantly.

There was a moment's silence. Then once again a bell; and a

chorus answered it.

Very slowly the Cardinal lifted his head, and saw before him the

Royal barge sway ever so slightly, conscious himself that through

his own vessel a vibration was beginning to run as the huge

engines beneath moved into action. Again roared the guns far down

the river, and, as the bellow ceased, from a thousand steeples

broke out the clamour of brazen tongues. . . .

He sat still; he knew at least that this he must do. . . . Surely

this obscurity of brain would pass again in a moment. He was

going to meet the Holy Father, was he not? . . . down there, down

that road of light and air, along which now his great barge

floated side by side with the King's. That was it. He remembered

again now as his memory flickered in glimpses. This was the great

Progress round the world of the new Arbiter of the World, the

Vicar of the Prince of Peace, come into his Kingdom at last.

He kept his eyes steadily before him, scarcely seeing the flash

of the river as it swept beneath him and away, or on all sides

the dipping flags, the monstrous gilded prows, the bravery of

colour, down this broad road on which he went, scarcely conscious

that, as he passed, the great barges wheeled behind him to follow

to the meeting; scarcely hearing the tremendous music that,

sweeping up from the crowded streets below, wafted up to him the

adoration of a free people who had learned at last that the Law

of Liberty was the Law of Love. . . .

Ah! there at last they came. . . .

Far down, rising every instant higher above the summer haze,

outlined against a heaven of intensest blue, approached a cloud

that sparkled as it came, that broke into a thousand points of

colour--a long, flat cloud, seen at first as a steamer stretched

across the sky, curving down behind, as it seemed, into the haze

from which it came. On and up it came, growing every instant,

widening and deepening, ever more and more clear in colour and

form and depth.

It could be seen now of what elements it was made--a throng of

tiny specks, moving like stately birds, which, even as the eye

watched, seemed to spread their wings upon the breeze that

followed; to expand their bulk, and to glow, as the distance

lessened, into the separate colours of each. . . .

Then once again bellowed the guns, heard now like the voice of

articulate thunder five miles behind, rolling up the river as if

to welcome this fleet upon its way; and still he kept his eyes

upon those who came so swiftly.

There in front moved the great guard-ships, monsters of

polished steel, decked at prow and stern with the huge banners

that stood out straight behind in the swiftness of their

coming, but which, even as he looked, flapped and bellied to

this side and that as the speed decreased. Then, wheeling

outwards, disclosing as they wheeled the insignia that each

bore, the eagles of Germany, the lilies of France and the rest,

the guard of thirty giants fell once more into line, half a

mile apart, as those that followed came on, and waited; beating

the air with the shimmer of their netted wings.

Then ship after ship came up, each wheeling in its turn and

waiting, building now up with the speed of thought a vast

semicircle, expanding ever more and more swiftly, as the

watcher looked--himself halted now, with the royal barge on his

right and his train of boats behind. There each in its turn

passed the air-navies of the Great Powers, come to bring their

Lord with honour on his progress through the world--vast

armaments of inconceivable war, enrolled at last in the service

of the Prince of Peace.

Then when the movement was complete, and there lay there across

the burning blue of the sky, five hundred feet in air, this vast

curve of glittering splendour, ten miles from horn to horn, on

came the great fleet that they had escorted.

There, then, the watcher saw two by two, first the barges of the

Papal Orders, the Order of the Holy Sepulchre with its five-fold

cross, and the Golden Spur, leading--huge medieval galleons,

carved at prow and stern, each bearing its insignia; then came

couple after couple bearing the Papal Court, followed closely by

great barges, each with its canopy and throne, and the coat of

the Cardinal whom each bore flying overhead.

And then a glorious sight.

For, moving alone in a solid phalanx, each vessel separated only

by the space necessary for close manoeuvring, came the royal

barges of Europe, ranked on either side by a line of

guard-boats--France, Austria, and Germany, then Belgium and

Holland, then the Scandinavian kingdoms, then a crowd of lesser

States from the Balkan, Greece, and the Black Sea; then the

black-eagled barge of Russia, and finally the great galleons of

Spain and Italy: and on each sat a royal figure beneath a canopy

of state. And last of all moved a huge vessel, in scarlet and

white, with a banner of white and gold and cross-keys at the

prow; scarcely seen at first through the crowding craft, with a

squadron of guard-ships coming after.

There, then, the man who had lost his memory sat motionless, and

watched it all--this astounding display of inner grace

transformed into glory at last, that Royalty which since first

the Fisherman took his seat in Holy Rome, had little by little,

through reverse and success, forced its way outwards on the

world--the leaven hid in the meal till all was leavened. . . .

And it seemed to him as he looked, as if, through the splendour

of the midday sun, the glitter of that sea of air-craft--through

the pealing of the bells beneath and the shock of the guns and

the shrill crying that filled the air--there moved other

Presences, too, in yet a third medium than those of air and

earth; as if diffused throughout this material plane was a world

of more than matter and mind, more than of sense and

perception--a world where all was reconciled and made at

one--this clash of flesh and spirit--and that at last each

answered to each, and spirit inspired flesh, and flesh expressed

spirit. It seemed to him, for one blinding instant, as if at last

he saw how distance was contained in a single point, colour in

whiteness, and sound in silence, as at the very Word of Him who

now at last had taken His power and reigned, whose Kingdom at

last had come indeed, to whom in very truth All Power was given

in heaven and earth. . . .

EPILOGUE

The white-skirted, clean-looking doctor came briskly and

noiselessly into the little room that opened off Ward No. IV in

the Westminster Hospital as the clock pointed to nine o'clock in

the morning, and the nursing-sister stood up to receive him.

"Good morning, sister," he said. "Any change?"

"He seemed a little disturbed about an hour ago by the bells,"

she said. "But he hasn't spoken at all."

Together they stood and looked down on the unconscious man. He

lay there motionless with closed eyes, his unshaven cheek resting

on his hand, his face fallen into folds and hollows, colourless

and sallow. The red coverlet drawn up over his shoulder helped to

emphasize his deadly pallor.

"It's a curious case," said the doctor. "I've never seen coma in

such a case last so long."

He still stared at him a moment or two; then he laid the back

of his hand gently against the dying man's cheek, then again

he consulted through his glasses the chart that hung over the

head of the bed.

"Will he recover consciousness before the end, doctor?"

"It's very likely; it's impossible to say. Send for me if

there's any change."

"I mayn't send for a priest, doctor?" she said

hesitatingly. "You know---"

He shook his head sharply.

"No, no. He distinctly refused, you remember. It's impossible,

sister. . . . I'm very sorry."

When he had gone, she sat down again, and drew out her beads

furtively upon her lap.

It was a horrible position for her. She, a Catholic, knew now

pretty well the history of this man--that he himself was a priest

who had lost the faith, who had associated himself with an

historian who was writing a history of the Popes from what he

called an impartial standpoint, who had, as the doctor said,

distinctly and resentfully refused the suggestion that another

priest should be sent to help him to make his peace before he died.

And, for her, as a convinced Catholic, the position had a terror

that is simply inconceivable to those of a less positive faith.

She could do nothing more. . . . She said her beads.

* * * * *

There was a curious mixture of silence and sound here on this

Easter Sunday in this bare, airy little ward, with the door

closed, and the windows open only at the top. The room had a

remote kind of atmosphere about it, obtained perhaps partly by

the solidity of the walls, partly by the fact that it looked out

on to a comparatively unfrequented lane, partly by the

suggestiveness of a professional sick-room. The world was all

about it; yet it seemed rather to this nurse, sitting alone at

her prayers and duties, as if she had a window into the common

world of life rather than that she actually was a part of it.

Even the sounds that entered here had this remote tone about

them; the footsteps and talking of strayed holiday-makers,

occasional fragmentary peals of bells, the striking of the clock

in the high Victoria Tower--all these noises came into the room

delicately and suggestively rather than as interruptions, yet

distinct and noticeable because of the absence of the usual rush

of traffic across the great square outside.

The nurse dozed a little over her beads. (She had been on duty

since the evening before, and would not be relieved for another

hour yet.) And it seemed to her, as so often in that half-sleep,

half-wakefulness, when the drowsy brain knows all necessary

things and awakes alert again in an instant at any unusual

movement or sound, as if these sounds began to take on them tones

of other causes than those of themselves.

It seemed, for example, as if the steady murmur were the shouting

of phantom crowds at an immeasurable distance, punctuated now

again by the noise of distant guns, as, somewhere round a corner

a vehicle passed over a crossing of cobble-stones; as if the

bells of the churches rang with a deliberate purpose, to welcome

or rejoice over some event . . . some entry of a king, she

fancied, in a far-off city. Once even, so deep grew her

drowsiness, she fancied herself looking down on some such city,

herself up in the sunlight and air, floating on the cloudy vessel

of her own sleep. . . .

"Pray for us sinners," she murmured, "now and in the hour of our death."

Then she awoke in earnest, and saw the eyes of the patient fixed

intelligently upon her.

"Fetch a priest," he said.

* * * * *

"Father," said the dying man an hour later, "is that all?

Have you finished?"

"Yes, my dear father--thank God!" . . .

"Well; sit down a minute or two. I want to talk to you."

The young priest, sent for nearly an hour ago in haste from the

Cathedral, finished putting up again into his little leather case

the tiny stocks of holy oil with which he had just anointed the

dying man. He had heard his confession . . . he had returned

again to fetch the _Viaticum_ and the oils; and now all was done;

and the old priest was reconciled and at peace. The young man was

still a little tremulous; it was his first reconciliation of a

dying apostate, and it seemed to him a marvellous thing that a

man could come back after so long, and so simply--and an apostate

priest at that! He had heard this man's name before, and heard

his story. . . .

But he was intensely anxious to know what it was that had wrought

the miracle. The sister had told him that until this moment the

patient had steadily refused even the suggestion to send for a

priest. And then, when he had come, there had been no

preliminaries. He had simply slipped on his stole as the sister

went to the door, sat down by the bedside, heard the confession,

and undertaken one or two little acts of restitution on his

penitent's behalf.

He sat down again now and waited.

The man in the bed lay with closed eyes, and an extraordinary

peace rested over him. It was almost impossible to believe, so

white were the reflections of these clean walls, so white the

linen, that there was not a certain interior luminosity that

shone over his features. His chin and lips and jaws were covered

with a week's stubble, his eyelids were sunk in the sockets, and

the temples looked shrunken and hollow; yet there was a clearness

of skin, not yet dusky with the shadow of death, that appeared

almost supernatural to this young man who looked at him.

"The sign of the Prophet Jonas," said the dying priest

suddenly. . . . "Resurrection."

"Yes?"

"That is what I have seen," he said. . . "No; I know it was a

dream. . . But it is possible; the Church has the power within

her. It may happen some day; or it may not. But there is no

reason why it should not."

The other leant over him.

"My dear father----" he began. The older priest smiled.

"It is a long time since I heard that," he said. . . . "What's

your name, father?"

"Jervis . . . Father Jervis. I come from the Cathedral."

The eyes opened and looked at him curiously.

"Eh?"

"Father Jervis," said the young priest again.

"Any relations?"

"Some nephews--children. That's all of my name."

"Ah well! Perhaps-" (He broke off). "Did they tell me your name,

before I became unconscious?"

"It's very likely. I'm the visiting chaplain here."

"Ah well! Who knows---? But that doesn't matter. . . . Father, how

long have I to live?"

The young priest leaned forward and laid his hand on the other's arm.

"A few hours only, father," he said gently. . . . "You are not

afraid?"

"_Afraid?_"

His eyes closed, and he smiled naturally and easily.

"Well; listen. Lean closer. . . . No . . . call the sister in.

I want her to hear too."

"Sister----"

She came forward, her eyes heavy with sleep, but they were bright

too with an immense joy.

"Can you wait up a little longer, sister?" said Father Jervis.

"He wants us both to hear what he has to say."

"Why, of course."

She sat down on the other side of the bed.

Still the sounds from outside went on--the footsteps and the

voices and the bells. They were beginning to ring for the Easter

morning service in the Abbey; and still, within this room, was

this air of silence and remoteness.

"Now, listen carefully," said the dying man. . . .