Front matter (continued 2)

"My son, do you love God?"

From silence, tardily the response emerged, "I don't know. I really don't know. He is Δημιουῥγοϛ, Maker of the World to me. He is Το Ἁγαθον to me, Truth and Righteousness and Beauty. He is Πανταναξ, Lord of All to me. He is First. He is Last. He is Perfect. He is Supreme. I believe in God, the Father Almighty; I believe in God the Son, Redeemer of the World; I believe in God the Holy Ghost, the Lord, the Lifegiver; One God in Trinity and Trinity in Unity. I absolutely believe in Him. There isn't in my mind the slightest shade of a question about Him. I unconditionally trust Him. I am not afraid of Him, because I can't think of Him as anything but righteous and merciful. To think otherwise would be both absurd and unfair to myself. And I'm quite sure that I'm ready and willing and delighted to make any kind of sacrifice for Him. I don't know why. So far, I clearly see. Then, in my mind, there comes a great gap,—filled with fog."

"Do you love your neighbour?"

"No, I frankly detest him, and her. Let me explain. Most people are repulsive to me, because they are ugly in person: more, because they are ugly in manner: many, because they are ugly in mind. Not that I never met people different to these. I have. People have occurred to me with whom I should like to be in sympathy. But I have been unable to get near enough to them. I seem to be a thing apart. I can't understand my neighbour. What satisfies him does not satisfy me. Once I induced a young lover to let me read his love-letters. He brought them every day for a week. His love had appeared to be a perfect idyll, pure and lovely as a flower. Well—I never read such rot in my life: simply categories of features and infantile gibberish done in the style of a housemaid's novelette. It made me sick. This kind of thing annoys me, terrifies me. You see, I want to understand my neighbour in order to love him. But I don't think I know what love is. But I want to—badly."

"Do you love yourself?"

"Father, do you mean the essence of me, or the form?"

"Yourself?"

"Well, of course I look after my body, and cultivate my mind: I'm afraid I don't pay enough attention to my soul. I certainly don't admire my person. That's all wrong. I can pick out a hundred deviations from the canon of proportion in it. Lysippos would have had a fit. And the tint is not quite pure. I make the best of it: but I don't think it matters much. As for my mind, I suppose I'm clever in a way, compared with other people: but I'm not half as clever as I'm supposed to be, or as I should like to be. In fact I'm rather more of a stupid ignoramus than otherwise. Naturally I stick up for myself, when I care to, against others: but, to myself, I despise myself. Oh I'm not interesting. On the whole, I think that I despise myself, body, mind, and soul. If I thought that they would be any good to anyone else, I'd throw them away to-morrow—if I could do it neatly and tidily and completely and with no one there to make remarks. They're no particular pleasure to me——"

"My son, tell me what would give you pleasure."

"Nothing. Father, I'm tired. Really nothing—except to flee away and be at rest."

"My son, that is actually the longing of your soul for God whatever. Cultivate that longing, oh cultivate it with all your powers. It will lead you to love Him; and then your longing will be satisfied, for God is love, as St. John tells us. Thank Him with all your heart for this great gift of longing: besiege Him day and night for an increase of it. At the same time, remember the words of Christ our Saviour, how He said, If ye love Me, keep My Commandments. Remember that He definitely commands you to love your neighbour, This is My Commandment, that ye love one another as I have loved you. Mortify those keen senses of that vile body, which by God's grace you are already moved to despise. In the words of St. Paul, keep it under and bring it into subjection. And do try to love your neighbour. Lay yourself out to be his servant: for Love is Service. Serve the servants of God; and you will learn to love God; and His servants for His sake. You have tasted the pleasures of the world, and they are as ashes in your mouth. You say that there is nothing to give you pleasure. That is a good sign. Cultivate that detachment from the world which is but for a moment and then passeth away. In the tremendous dignity to which you are about to be called—the dignity of the priesthood—be ever mindful of the vanity of worldly things. As a priest, you will be subject to fiercer temptations than those which assault you now. Brace up the great natural strength of your will to resist them. Continue to despise yourself. Begin to love your neighbour. Continue—yes, continue—unconsciously, but soon consciously, to love God. My son, the key to all your difficulties, present and to come, is Love.... For your penance you will say—well, the penance for minor orders is rather long—for your penance you will say the Divine Praises with the celebrant after mass. Now renew your sorrow for all your past sins, and say after me, O my God—because by my sins I have deserved hell—and have lost my claim to heaven—I am truly sorry that I have offended Thee—and I firmly resolve—by Thy Grace—to avoid sin for the time to come.—O my God—because Thou art infinitely Good—and Most Worthy of all love—I grieve from my heart for having sinned against Thee—and I purpose—by Thy Grace—never more to offend Thee for the time to come.... ego te absolvo ✠ in Nomine Patris et Filj et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Go in peace and pray for me."

When, a couple of hours later, George actually found himself door-keeper, reader, exorcist, and acolyth, he noted also with some exasperation that he was in his usual nasty morning temper. He sat down to breakfast with the cardinal and the bishop in anything but a cheerful frame of mind. They had said a few civil kind-like words to him after the ceremonies: ad multos annos and a sixpenny rosary emanated from his new ordinary: but, in the refectory, they left him to himself while they ate their eggs-and-bacon discussing the news of the day. He chose a cup of coffee, and soaked some fingers of toast in it. His idea was to bring himself into harmony with his novel environment. Environment meant so much to him. Now, he no longer was an irresponsible vagrant atom, floating in the void at his own will, or driven into the wilderness by some irresistible human cyclone: but an officer of a potent corporation, subject to rule, a man under authority. His pose was to be as simple and innocuous as possible, alertly to wait for orders; and, at the present moment, to win a merit from a contemplation of the honour which was his in being received as a guest at the cardinalitial table. He turned his head to the left, wondering whether mere accident had placed him at His Eminency's right hand where the light from the window fell full upon him. He studied the singularly distinct features of his diocesan, who was reading from the Times of the outbreak of revolution in France, where General Andrè's army-reforms of 1902, the blatant scandalous venality of Combes and Pelletan, and the influence of that frightful society of school-boys called Les Frères de la Côte, had thrown the military power into the hands of Jaurès and his anarchists, revived the Commune, and broken off diplomatic relations with the Powers. Dreadful! His Eminency feared that he would be obliged to return to Rome by the sea-route, unless, perhaps, he could go comfortably through Germany. Oh, very dreadful!

George listened, regretting that he had not the paper and a cigarette all to himself: but the coffee was not bad; and the ponderous irritation of his matutinal headache was disappearing. He took another cup. He remembered how he had laughed at an Occ. Note in the Pall Mall Gazette some few months before, to the effect that the old tradition of antipathy between the two peoples separated by the Channel was as dead as Georgian England and the era of the Bien-Aimé, and suggesting that the two leading democracies of the world—(England a democracy indeed!)—ought to live on terms of good understanding and neighbourliness, or some such tomfoolery. How could two walk together unless they were agreed? And on what single permanent and vital essential were England and France agreed? George could think of none, any more than Nelson could. Commerce? Yes, perhaps some fools thought so, forgetful that commerce fluctuates from day to day, and that it is the spawning-bed of individual and international rivalry. No. He had no confidence in France. She openly had been accumulating combustibility these five years; and here was the conflagration. This seemed to be a thoroughly French revolution, sudden, sanguinary, flamboyant, engendered by self-esteem on instability, and produced with élan and theatrical effect. Brisk and prompt to war, soft and not in the least able to resist calamity, fickle in catching at schemes, and always striving after novelties—French characteristics remained unaltered twenty centuries after Julius Cæsar made a note of them for all time.

George detected himself in the very act of affixing a label to a nation. He brought down his will with a thud on his critical faculty. The bishop looked at the cardinal, suggesting that Mr. Rose was accustomed to smoke over his meals.

"Don't you find it bad for the digestion?" the cardinal inquired in the tone of an archbishop to an acolyth. An access of genial gentlehood, and something else, to which George at the moment was unable to put a name, suddenly infused his manner when he had spoken.

"I don't think I have a digestion. At least it never manifests itself to me."

"Happy man!" the cardinal exclaimed to no one in particular: adding, "Well perhaps we might go upstairs; and Mr. Rose can have his cigarette and listen to me at the same time."

The room to which they went was a private cabinet, a very vermilion and gold room, large, airy, princely. The cardinal took a long envelope from the bureau. "I think you will find that correct, Mr. Rose," he said. "You had better open it before we go any further."

The contents were a blank cheque-book, and a bank-book containing Messrs. Coutts's acknowledgment of the credit of ten thousand pounds to the current account of the Reverend George Arthur Rose.

Notwithstanding his natural hypersensibility, that peculiar individual did not become the plaything of his emotions until some time after the event which brought them into action. At the moment when blows or blessings fell upon him, he rarely was conscious of more than a crab is conscious of when its shell is struck or stroked. Later, when he deliberately set himself to analyse consequences, all his senses throbbed and tingled. But, at first, he was wont to act, on the impulse certainly:—but to act. Having acquainted himself with the contents of the envelope, he took out his beloved Waterman, saying "I'm sure Your Eminency will let me have the pleasure of writing my first cheque here."

He handed to the cardinal a draft for five thousand pounds, payable to bearer. It afterwards occurred to him that he could have taken no more cynical way of testing the reality of this fortune. He felt ashamed of himself, for he hated cynicism. The act itself merely was the act of a man awakening from a vivid dream and automatically doing what he had resolved, before falling asleep, to do. In effect, it was by way of being a pinch of a kind to himself. There was no doubt whatever but that it was a pinch of another kind to the cardinal. Followed alternately disclaimers, stolidity, embarrassment, humility, unction: the cheque went into the bureau, the cheque-book and the bank-book into the pocket of George's jacket.

And now, what was the extent of his theological studies? His general knowledge of course was unexceptional: but special—knowledge theology? Well, in Dogma he had done the treatises On Grace—"a very difficult treatise, Mr. Rose"—and On the Church—"a very important treatise, Mr. Rose;"—and in Moral Theology he had read Lehmkuhl, especially On the Eucharist and On Penance,—"nothing could be better, Mr. Rose." These had been the subjects of the professorial lectures at Maryvale. During the years which had elapsed since then, he had read them again and again, until he thought he had them at his fingers' ends. As for Cardinal Franzelin's De Ecclesia (that was the Maryvale text-book), he found it one of the most fascinating books in the world. In fact, it was a regular bedside book of his: and by this time he knew it by heart. Being a man of letters, of course he would like to enlarge it a little, to put a gloss upon it here and there, perhaps even to expand the thesis at certain points. St. Augustine's Encheiridion was another favourite book. And St. Anselm's Cur Deus Homo was another. His reading was extensive and curious: but, sad to say, desultory and unsystematic, because undirected. He had read the standard works as a matter of duty: but he had made a far more exhaustive study of obscure writers. The occult, white magic bien entendue, was intensely interesting, the book on Demoniality by Fr. Sinistrari of Ameno, for example. Perhaps it would be desirable for him to tabulate the sum of his studies, that His Eminency might decide whether to have him examined in those or to submit him to a fresh course.

"Quite unnecessary, Mr. Rose. And now touching the matter of ceremonial."

He had made a point of mastering Martinucci, practice as well as theory. It was astonishing what a lot could be done with a guide-book, a few household-implements, and imagination. He was aware that he had practised under difficulties: but a few rehearsals beneath the eye of an expert——

"And Canon Law?"

"Nothing at all."

"Well, well, just those few treatises in Dogmatic and Moral Theology in particular, and a large amount of random reading in general. Of course the Grace of God can supply all our deficiencies. I myself—— Things which are hidden from the wise and prudent oft-times are revealed unto—oh yes! Well, Mr. Rose, it is not a large, or, humanly speaking, an adequate equipment for—for the priesthood, certainly. But we must consider the years which you have waited. Yes. Well, perhaps we had better waste no more time now. Go home and pack your bag: and come and stay with me for a little till we can settle on your future. I shall give you the subdiaconate to-morrow morning; and you can arrange to say your first Mass on Sunday in the cathedral."

"My first Mass must be a black mass, Eminency."

The cardinalitial eyebrows would go up.

"It is a long-planned intention, Eminency: it is all I can do."

"I quite understand, Mr. Rose. You would wish to say your first mass quietly and alone. You shall say it in the private chapel. The Bishop of Caerleon would like to be your assistant; and—ha—I shall be very glad if you will allow me to serve you."

George looked from the cardinal to the bishop; and back again. After storm, this was calm and peace, with a vengeance.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAPTER I

What was causing the special correspondents in Rome to exude the subterfuges, with which (as a pis-aller) they are accustomed to gain their daily bread, was no such recondite matter after all.

Just as Jews are less commercial, and Jesuits less cunning, so journalists are less capable than they are supposed to be. As a matter of fact, they are quite unscientific persons, in that they go about their business in a fortuitous manner trusting to the human element called "smartness" for producing their effects. They have not yet realized the instability of all human elements. The superhuman is a sealed book to them. They mean oh so well: but they have no knowledge of first principles. They invariably commit the unpardonable error of confounding universals with particulars: because the influence of fragile or unworthy authority, custom, the imperfection of undisciplined senses, and concealment of ignorance by ostentation of seeming wisdom, are as stumbling-blocks which obstruct their path to Truth. Add to this a lack of sympathetic intuition and of an historical knowledge of their subject. They take no end of pains to acquire a fluid style of writing; and it may be admitted that, within their limitations, they can describe the superficies of almost anything which may be shoved under their noses. But, as for giving a scientific description (under such heads, for example, as the Material, Formal, Efficient, and Final Causes,) so that one can derive a satisfactory understanding of the thing described,—that is beyond their power. And, as for proceeding in a scientific manner, whether by means of the liberal or the so-called occult arts, to what on the whole is the essence of their business, viz. the collection of news, why Sir Notyet Apeer's young men, or Sir Uriah Tepeddle's criminal-investigators, or the "yearnest" exoletes who fill the Daily Anagraph with food for literary lionlets and Roman Catholic clergy and nonconforming philanthropists, have no such adequate ideal of their branch of literature. Their aim is to please editors or proprietors; and, so, to earn an as-near-as-may-be-legally honest living. No more.

Consequently, when (during March and April) a score or so of these good gentlemen found themselves in Rome, with the doors of the Conclave bricked-up in their faces, the windows boarded and canvas-covered, and even the chimneys (with one exception) capped, they knew no better than to curse quite quietly all to themselves, to say that nothing was happening because they could not see what was happening, and to write dicaculous descriptions of the crowd, and the seven puffs of smoke (which on seven separate occasions distracted the said crowd), in the square of St. Peter's.

For, if there be one place in all this orb of earth, where a secret is a Secret, that place is a Roman Conclave. It is due to the superlative incompetency of the spies. Ignorant of their subject, they cannot seize its saliencies: they cannot move a hair's breadth out of their conventional groove, notwithstanding that common sense should teach them the imperative necessity for applying unconventional methods to unconventional cases. When once we have emerged from the banal blinding stifling paralysing obfuscation of the nineteenth century, (and that should be in about ten years' time,) it will be obligatory for "Our Special Correspondent" to add two things to his professional apparatus. The first is the power of mind-projection, as well as that other power of will-projection which, already, up-to-date practical common-sense men-of-the-world like the Jesuits use to such advantage. The second is a round matter, of about two-pounds-ten-ounces' avoirdupois weight including its black-velvet wrapper, which costs forty-two pounds-sterling at the mineralogists' in Regent Street.

CHAPTER II

Well: this is what was happening in the Roman Conclave.

Cursors had shouted "Extra omnes": fifty-seven cardinals and three-hundred-and-eleven conclavists had been immured in three galleries of the Vatican. All the ceremonies ordained in 1274 at the Council of Lyons by the Bull of Gregory X. had been observed.

The Sacred College was divided into factions. There were five candidates for the paparchy:—Orezzo, Serafino-Vagellaio, cardinal-bishops: Ragna, Gentilotto, Fiamma, cardinal-presbyters. Then came groups representing divers nationalities. The French were Desbiens, Coucheur, Lanifère, Goëland, Perron, Mâteur, Légat, Labeur, cardinal-presbyters; and Vaghemestre, cardinal-deacon. The Germans were Rugscha, Zarvasy, Popk, Niazk, cardinal-presbyters. The Spaniards were Nascha, Sañasca, Harrera, cardinal-presbyters. The Erse were O'Dromgoole, O'Tuohy, cardinal-presbyters. The Italians were Moccolo, Agnello, Vincenzo-Vagellaio, cardinal-bishops: Sarda, Ferraio, Saviolli, Manco, Ferita, Creta, Anziano, Cassia, Portolano, Respiro, Riciso, Zafferano, Mantenuti, Gennaio, Bosso, Conella, del Drudo, di Petra, di Bonti, cardinal-presbyters: Macca, Sega, Pietratta, Pepato, della Volta, cardinal-deacons. The English and American cardinal-presbyters Courtleigh and Grace agreed to vote together: so did the Benedictine cardinal-presbyter Cacciatore, and the Capuchin and Jesuit cardinal-deacons Vivole and Berstein. The Portuguese cardinal-prior-presbyter Mundo, and the Bohemian cardinal-presbyter Nefski (who was carried in a litter) posed as independent voters. Cardinal-presbyter Capacitato was absent through the infirmities of age; and, as common report (to say nothing of common knowledge) credited him with the possession of the Evil Eye, Their Eminencies were thankful to think that the fingers, which they would need for inscribing their suffrages, need not be employed in making perpetual horns.

Once walled-up, and the conclavists having been satisfied about their comical constitutional privileges, the cardinals spent the evening in visiting one another in their cells, in discussing the prospects of the five candidates, in canvassing for and promising suffrages. The five themselves were divided into two parties which Ferraio, who was a bit of a wag, denominated in an abstruse jest the Snarlers and the Mewers. A Roman tradition alleges that the letter R (the litera canina) exercises an indefinable influence over an election, in that it occurs in the family names of alternate pontiffs. Others declared this tradition to be grounded upon no more sure warranty than old wives' fables (anicularum lucubrationes), Serafino-Vagellaio, Gentilotto, Fiamma, gave expression to that theory. Circumlocution aside, there was little to choose between the five. Luigi Orezzo was Cardinal-Bishop, Dean of the Sacred College, Chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church. Mariano Ragna was Secretary of State. Serafino-Vagellaio had been the favourite of a pontiff who had had all the world from which to choose. Hieronimo Gentilotto, nicknamed "The Red Pope" because he was Prefect of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, only had the Successor of the Fisherman as his superior. Domenico Fiamma, Archbishop of Bologna, was in the prime of vigorous life and famous for his brilliant intellect and noble mind.

A cardinal is prohibited from voting for himself. Orezzo promised his suffrage to Ragna: Ragna, his to Orezzo: Snarlers should snarl at each other. Serafino-Vagellaio also promised his suffrage to Ragna, having the idea that an official is worthy of observance. But Gentilotto supported Fiamma: and Fiamma, Gentilotto.

Morning saw mass and communion in the Pauline Chapel, and Their Eminencies proceeding to their thrones in the Xystine Chapel. A long silence came to pass. Fat wax tapers glimmered on the altar, on the screen, on the desk before each throne. So the cardinals waited, smoothing violet robes and the white uncovered rochets which indicated that supreme spiritual authority was devolved into their hands. No one was moved to speak. Election was not to be accomplished by the Way of Inspiration.

Masters-of-ceremonies placed, on the table before the altar, two silver basons containing little paper billets. The names of the fifty-seven cardinals were written each on a little snip of parchment. The snips, rolled up, were tucked in holes in fifty-seven lead balls. The balls were dropped into a huge violet burse, one by one, counted by the electors. The burse was well-shaken; and Vaghemestre drew out three. The first bore the name Moccolo: the second, Popk: the third Harrera. Thus were elected the Cardinal-Scrutators.

In turn, each cardinal provided himself with a blank billet from the silver basons: retired to his desk: and set about recording his suffrage. At the top of the billet, he wrote "I, Cardinal" and his name: folded it over: sealed it at each side. At the bottom he wrote his motto: folded it over: sealed it at each side. In the middle, he wrote "elect to the Supreme Pontificate the Most Reverend Lord my Lord Cardinal" and the name of the candidate to whom he gave his suffrage. Scratching of quills, splashing of scattered pounce, punctuated momentous silence. In obedience to the Bull of Gregory X., some made efforts to disguise their script. The results were hideous. Last, all folded their billets to about the breadth of an inch; and, in turn, each cardinal approached the altar, alone, holding his suffrage at arms' length between the index and middle fingers of his right hand: bent his knee: rising, swore "I attest, before Christ, Who is to be my judge, that I choose him whom I think fittest to be chosen if it be according to God's will." A great gold chalice covered by a paten stood on the altar. Each cardinal laid his suffrage on the paten: tipped it until the suffrage slid into the chalice: replaced the paten; and returned to his throne.

Cardinal-Scrutator Moccolo took the chalice by the foot: placed one hand on the paten: and shook, thoroughly to mix the suffrages. The Cardinal-Dean, the Cardinal-Prior-Priest, and the Cardinal-Archdeacon brought down the chalice to the table from which the billet-basons now had been removed. A ciborium stood there. The three Scrutators sat at one side of the table in face of the Sacred College. Harrera counted the suffrages, one by one, from the chalice into the ciborium. There were fifty-seven. A grateful sigh went up. A hitch would have invalidated the scrutiny, giving Their Eminencies the pains of voting and sealing and swearing over again. Moccolo drew out one suffrage: unfolded it without violating the sealed ends: discovered the name of the candidate to whom the vote was given; and passed it to Popk, who also looked at the name; and passed it to Harrera, who read the name aloud.

Each cardinal had on his desk a printed list of the Sacred College. The names ran down the middle of the sheets. To right and left were horizontal lines on which a tally of the votes was kept. As Harrera published the names, he filed each billet, piercing the word "elect" with a needle through which a skein of violet silk was threaded. When all were filed, he tied a knot in the silk; and laid the bunch of suffrages on the altar.

The Way of Scrutiny at first produced the usual result. The fifty-seven suffrages were so evenly distributed among the five candidates that no one was elected. Orezzo had eight, viz. Ragna, Moccolo, Agnello, Manco, Sarda, Macca, Pepato, di Petra. Ragna had thirteen, viz. Orezzo, Serafino-Vagellaio, Cacciatore, Vivole, Berstein, Nascha, Sañasca, Harrera, Ferita, Pietratta, Bosso, Sega, Conella. Serafino-Vagellaio had eleven, viz. his brother Vincenzo, Rugscha, Zarvasy, Popk, Niazk, Gennaio, Cassia, Anziano, Portolano, Creta, di Bonti. Gentilotto had twelve, viz. Fiamma, Desbiens, Coucheur, Lanifère, Goëland, Mâteur, Légat, Perron, Labeur, Vaghemestre, Zafferano, Mantenuti. Fiamma had thirteen, viz. Gentilotto, Courtleigh, Grace, O'Dromgoole, O'Tuohy, Saviolli, della Volta, del Drudo, Respiro, Riciso, Nefski, Ferraio, Mundo. The Way of Access shewed that all still were of the same opinion; and that each expected the others to change theirs. A bundle of straw in the stove, the files of pierced suffrages laid thereon, and fire applied, produced the puff of smoke from the chimney in the Square of St. Peter's which announced that the Lord God had sent no Pope to Rome that morning.

The cardinals went to dine in their separate cells. After siesta and before prayers those who could walk took exercise in the galleries: others read the Daily Office with their chaplains. There was conversation, canvassing. In the evening, they sang Veni Creator and went to work again. Orezzo gained Anziano and Portolano, raising his total to ten. The nine French and the two Erse, with Ferita, Bosso, Pietratta, Sega, Conella, acceded to Ragna, raising his total to twenty-four. Serafino-Vagellaio kept but five supporters, viz. his brother and the four Germans. Gentilotto lost the nine French: but gained Gennaio, di Bonti, Cassia, Creta, bringing his total to seven. The defection of the two Erse reduced Fiamma's adherents to eleven. And once more the puff of smoke emptied the Square of St. Peter's.

Private conferences occupied time: candles burned late into the night. Violet silk robes sussurated between violet serge curtains everywhere. There were colloquies, hints, exhortations, arguments, promises, promises dictated, suggested, given. Ragna took the opinion of his friends concerning a commodious pontifical name. Vivole offered him "Formosus the Second" and a pinch of Capuchin snuff out of the pages of his breviary: but Berstein preferred "Aloysius the First." The Secretary of State would bear both in mind. Cohesion in clots began. The French, Germans, Spaniards, and Erse, already were united in four groups. What the leader of each group would do, the nine, the four, the three, and the two would do. By demonstrating that cardinal-deacons occasionally were raised to Titles, or Suburban sees, by Popes Whom they had elected, Cardinal-Archdeacon Macca collected a little diaconal fraction of four, himself, Pietratti, Sega, and Pepato. Ten Italians, viz. Conella, Manco, di Petra, Ferita, Creta, Cassia, Gennaio, di Bonti, Sarda, Bosso, agreed to vote together. Mundo refused to join the Spaniards; and Nefski, the Germans, on account of sundry events in Poland. Ferraio, Archbishop of Milan, would stick to Fiamma under all circumstances, because they both had been raised to the cardinalature together. Saviolli threw in his lot with the Keltic and American cardinals. Della Volta was in sympathy with Saviolli and his friends. Del Drudo delivered himself of the cryptic sentence that one who had been a major-domo ought to know a fresh egg from a stale one. And Cardinal-Vicar Respiro, and Riciso, Archbishop of Turin, agreed with del Drudo.

So in the morning the third capitular assembly revealed an extraordinary state of affairs. Orezzo lost all his supporters but four, viz. Moccolo, Agnello, Anziano, Portolano. Serafino-Vagellaio lost all votes except his brother's. Gentilotto lost all but three, viz. Fiamma, Zafferano, Mantenuti. Fiamma retained his loyal eleven. And Ragna began to score. First, he kept Orezzo and Serafino-Vagellaio, the Benedictine, the Capuchin, the Jesuit, and the three Spaniards. The nine French (for a wonder) remained constant to him for two consecutive days. So did the two Erse: indeed O'Tuohy, who as a student had vowed that he never would look a woman in the face, (and kept his vow,) was as persistent as he had been when Leo XIII. had tried to force him into the primacy of Eblana in the teeth of electors who rejected him. The four Germans, the four deacons, and the decade of Italians also joined Ragna, whose tally went in jumps (so to speak) from two, to five, and eight, and seventeen, and nineteen, and twenty-three, and twenty-seven, and thirty-seven——

According to the Constitution of Alexander III., made at the Council of Lateran in the year of the Fructiferous Incarnation of the Son of God MCLXXX., and confirmed by subsequent Bulls of Gregory XV. and Urban VIII., the votes of two-thirds of the cardinals present at the Scrutiny are required for the election of a Pope. Not one of Their Eminencies was ignorant of the fact that two-thirds of fifty-seven is thirty-eight. Wherefore, when the tallies shewed thirty-seven votes for Ragna, and the Junior Scrutator stood up with just one more billet in his hand, some began stertorously to breathe through their noses: some went mauve and some magenta: while those of a phlegmatic habit of body reached for the cords of the canopies above their thrones, which descend at the manifestation of Christ's Vicar.

Harrera read the name "Ragna."

What happened next happened very quickly. The Scrutators broke the seals of the billets one by one; and Harrera read aloud the names of the electors as well as the name of the elected. At the thirteenth, he read, I, Cardinal Mariano Ragna, elect to the Supreme Pontificate the Most Reverend Lord my Lord Cardinal Mariano Ragna.

This was a horrid example of the clever strong man, who loses control of his directive faculty, in the moment of excitement. No one could have done such a thing out of wilful wickedness: for the stringency of conclavial regulations effectually denies success to nefarious practices. Everyone knows that. The Secretary of State, by voting for himself just when he was on the verge of achieving the most tremendous of all ambitions, forfeited his own suffrage; and his election was nulled by defect of a single vote. What passions dilacerated his breast, God only knows. He shut-up himself in his cell during the rest of the day, horribly snarling. Orezzo, who injudiciously went to sympathize, suddenly came-away mouthing and tottering.

The fourth Scrutiny began to shew how unpardonable a mistake is. Ragna's ten Italians and four Germans fled to the faction of Fiamma. Ragna himself voted for Serafino-Vagellaio. The tally gave Orezzo four: Ragna, twenty-three: Serafino-Vagellaio, two: Gentilotto, three: Fiamma, twenty-five.

In the fifth Scrutiny, desertions from Ragna continued. The French nine voted for Orezzo: the three Spaniards for Gentilotto. The tally gave Orezzo thirteen: Ragna eleven: Serafino-Vagellaio, two: Gentilotto, six: Fiamma, twenty-five.

And now the French began to be flighty. In the sixth Scrutiny, they were seen to have dashed from Orezzo to Gentilotto, making the tally of Orezzo four: of Ragna, eleven: of Serafino-Vagellaio, two: of Gentilotto, fifteen: of Fiamma, twenty-five.

Little suburban boys formerly used to satiate their emotions with a phrenetic and turbulent pastime called General Post. The seventh Scrutiny indicated a conclavial propensity for a verisimilar species of energetic dissipation. The four cardinal-deacons, evidently despairing of Ragna, left him. So did the two Erse cardinal-presbyters. The diaconate went over to Gentilotto, who lost the French to Serafino-Vagellaio. The Erse voted for the Cardinal-Chamberlain. The seventh puff of smoke from the chimney in the Square of St. Peter's was caused by the burning of fifty-seven suffrages allotted thus: Orezzo 6: Ragna 5: Serafino-Vagellaio 11: Gentilotto 10: Fiamma 25.

Confabulations, to say naught of protocols, became the order of the day and night. No new candidate was forthcoming. The five candidates flatly refused to retire, or to alter the disposition of their suffrages. Moccolo, Agnello, Anziano, Portolano, refused to desert Orezzo. Zafferano and Mantenuti refused to abandon Gentilotto. Vincenzo-Vagellaio refused to be false to his brother. The Benedictine, the Capuchin, and the Jesuit, refused to forsake Ragna. Fiamma's stalwart twenty-five excited disgust. Ringed and middle fingers were protruded at it. Although there was not a single clean-bred Englishman in its ranks, it was said to be getting "quite English"; and that is a very bitter taunt in the Vatican when the Quirinale is notoriously Anglophile. As for the Portugal Mundo, its leader—well, everyone knows that Portugal has been in the King of England's pocket since the Lisbon extravaganza, said Sañasca. As for the Germans,—well, everybody knows that Prussians are just as bestially cynical as Jonbulls, said Coucheur. The Franco-Hispano-Erse faction was quite ready to go anywhere and vote for anybody who was not "English." The deacons, on the contrary, remembered that England was very much the fashion; and began to have respect unto the twenty-five. But the Way of Scrutiny failed, and the Way of Access also failed, to produce a pontiff. Fiamma's tally rose to twenty-nine by the accession of the diaconate. The Franco-Hispano-Erse alliance attached itself by fits and starts to Orezzo, to Ragna, to Serafino-Vagellaio, to Gentilotto: but the indispensable two-thirds of fifty-seven never was attained. And, after a week of errancy, Their Eminencies thought that the whole affair was rather tiresome.

Ragna's massive prognathous jaw, the colour of porphyry, bulged in emitting a suggestion. As the College seemed unlikely to come to any agreement, why not elect an old man, who, in the course of nature, only could live a year or two, and whose demise would necessitate another Conclave at an early date? He unselfishly would designate Orezzo. There, for example, was a cardinal to whom the paparchy was by way of being owed since 1878, when he actually had lost it to Leo. Let Orezzo now be elected; and, during his brief pontificature, let the Most Eminent Lords devote their energies towards arrangements for giving him a generous glorious and enlightened successor, who, in this reactionary age, was experienced in all the devious subtilties of secular diplomacy, and who was under sixty-five years old.

The Sacred College rejected the bare idea. What! Elect a Pope who, out of sheer personal antipathy, would make it his business to annul the policy of Leo? What! elect a Pope who had spent more than a quarter of a century in composing and reciting litanies of complaints against Leo's management of the Church? What! Elect a Pope who had proved himself to be purely barbarian by the ferocity of his ritual tapping on the forehead of the dead Leo? Di meliora!!

Ragna adroitly disclaimed a personal predilection for Orezzo. That idea was dismissed.

"Then what?" was the general question.

"The Way of Compromise," cooed Vincenzo-Vagellaio.

There was another capitular session in the Xystine Chapel. By means of the snips of parchment, the lead balls, the huge violet burse, nine cardinals were chosen by lot and appointed as Cardinal-Compromissaries. Singularly enough they were Courtleigh, Mundo, Fiamma, Grace, Ferraio, Saviolli, Nefski, Gentilotto, and della Volta. The College executed a compromise in writing, no one contradicting or opposing it, whereby these nine were invested with absolute power and faculty to make provision of a pastor for the Holy Roman Church.

The Compromissaries conferred. To begin with, they mutually protested that they would not be understood to give their consent by all sorts of words or expressions which might fall from them in the heat of debate, unless they expressly set the same down in writing. Then, they looked whole inquisitions one at another, saying nothing. And, after half-an-hour they adjourned till the morrow: gathered up their trains; and swept each to his separate cell. Stupid conclavists tried to read their expressions. As well try to find out his thoughts from the sole of his unworn shoe as from the face of a cardinal. The cardinalitial mask is as superior (in impenetrable pachydermatosity) to that of the proverbial public-schoolboy, as is the cuticle of a crocodile to that of pulex irritans.

The task of the Compromissaries was too onerous to be begun until a chaos of ideas had been set in order. Gentilotto and Fiamma paced up and down the galleries together. Acceptance of their present office had nullified their chances of the triple crown. Either would have worn that gladly and well: neither was inclined to struggle for it. The Scrutinies dreadfully had annoyed their dignity, the pure and gentle dignity of Gentilotto, the radiant opulent dignity of Fiamma. To have escaped from the sweaty turmoil of competition satisfied them. Ferraio joined them in their perambulation: joined his ideas and sympathies to theirs. Mundo paid a visit to Courtleigh, and heard his confession: the Cardinal of Pimlico had no use for the conclavial confessor, who was a Jesuit. Nefski, pallid and wan, tried a little walk by the aid of the arm of della Volta: and afterwards, those two said mattins and lauds together. Saviolli sat-out the evening in Grace's cell, chatting about the Munroe Doctrine. Courtleigh sat alone in his cell: his hands were on the arms of his chair: his gaze was fixed on the flame of the candle. His thoughts whirled: eddyed: and were still. He fell asleep. His brother, who was his chaplain, peered through the violet curtains, inquiring his needs. He needed nothing—perhaps he would do a little writing before saying his night-prayers. Monsignor John placed a dispatch-box on the table, a couple of new candles on the prickets; and retired. Anon, His Eminency opened the box with a miniature gold key hinged to the under-side of the bezel of his cameo ring; and meditatively turned over and over his archiepiscopal correspondence. One packet of letters seemed to fascinate him. He held it in his hands for a long time, fixedly regarding it. He untied the vermilion ribbon; and began to read. He had read these letters before, just before he entered the Conclave. He would read them again now: reading helps thought: it is as a strong arm supporting feeble steps: it is as the pinions upon which thought can fly: or it is inspiration. Cardinal Courtleigh read a dozen pages or so. Then he sat with his chin in his hand, gazing again at the candle-flame. His thoughts were flying. They were quite personal, quite unconnected with his present situation or his present office. Orezzo, Ragna, and Serafino-Vagellaio, engaged the Compromissaries in conversations wherever they met them, in doorways, on promenades: quite often they called to make perfectly certain that they lacked no conveniences in their cells.

Morning and evening conferences were occupied by long discussions on the merits of the three remaining candidates, and of the other five-and-forty cardinals. The predilections of the Powers were passed in review. The ambassador of the Emperor had notified that Austria would look favourably upon Rugscha. But to think of that old man—born in 1818—nearly ninety years old—oh, quite impossible. The Siege of Peter needed no more senility, but rather juvence. Old men were so obstinate, much more obstinate than headstrong youth. The ambassador of the Catholic King had urged the claims of the Archbishop of Compostella. True, that one was not so old—but, three-score years and ten—is it not the Psalmist's limit?

And did any of Their Eminencies desire to assist at another Conclave, (say) within the next five years? Their Eminencies had had enough of Conclaves to last them for the span of their mortal lives. The French ambassador had made no recommendation, seeing that the Commune had recalled him, torn him out of the train at Modane on the French frontier and sliced him in pieces. Portugal had plumped for Mundo, who declared himself unwilling to accept, and as Compromissary incapable of accepting, the paparchy.

Italy—m-ym-ym-ym-ym—well, Italy? A geographical expression: no more. Now then the others. The German Emperor? His Majesty had nominated Courtleigh. Now why? The Cardinal of Pimlico, smiling, really did not know. He was much obliged, he was sure. Perhaps the young man thought that, by nominating one of his own uncle's subjects (and a very unworthy one) he would induce his said uncle to return the compliment and nominate a German. And would the uncle so oblige? Courtleigh thought not. The aforesaid uncle was quite as self-willed as, and infinitely more tactful than, and the last person in the world to let his leg be pulled by, his imperial nephew. Well then what was the King of England's attitude? Courtleigh did not know: but he believed—indeed he had had it from Mr. Chamberlain——Yes, and the Lord Chamberlain said?—Not the Lord Chamberlain:— Mister Chamberlain—the Prime Minister—had said that His Majesty was not by way of meddling with matters which did not concern him. The Compromissaries pronounced the King of England's conduct to be most observable. And the Cardinal of Pimlico added that in any case he (as a Compromissary) was ineligible: while the Cardinal of Baltimore calculated that America also would stand out of this deal.

A definite decision evaded capture. Satisfaction seemed to be such a very long way up in the air. Not one of the nine was sensible of an overwhelming irresistible impulse to select any particular individual as Pope. That is such an invidious undertaking: the spirit faints at its immensity. But the Compromissaries subconsciously were drawing near and nearer to each other, and away from the rest, who, in their turn cohered in curiosity. The fourth conference was an unusually futile one. Mundo frankly and abruptly stated his conviction that the Lord God was not intending Himself to take a Vicegerent out of the Sacred College: whereat Their Eminencies laughed; and adjourned, conversing of other and secular affairs.

Courtleigh went out on della Volta's arm. "Eminency," he said, "I have known you now for nearly twenty years: and, whenever I see you, I always fancy that I have met you somewhere in other circumstances. You have never been in London? I thought not. And I suppose you haven't what they call a Double? I don't mean that your type is common. Far from it. But, at times, I seem—— You remind me of—— And yet I do not know of whom——"

And another night enshrouded the palace on the Vatican Hill.

As Cardinal Courtleigh was trying to shave himself next morning, the phantom of his friend della Volta invaded his mental vision: suddenly, resemblance and remembrance clashed together striking a spark. By the light of it, he saw and knew—something. He laughed shortly: and grew grave. He was deeply engrossed with his dispatch-box until the hour of conference. The matters which he laid before the other Compromissaries caused several precedents to be set aside and some to be created. And, at 9 p.m., forty-two cardinals, wearing the habits of ordinary priests, drove away in cabs towards the railway-station: while the Cardinal-Chamberlain unlocked the inside of the door of the Conclave. Hereditary-marshal Ghici, summoned from his watching chamber to unlock the outside, was flabbergasted by an invitation to declare whether the Vatican was a prison for cardinals as well as for popes? He did hate being mocked by a boiled lobster!

Fifteen comparatively speechless Eminencies spent a few weeks there in quiet leisure, reading in the library, admiring the pictures and the sculptures, sometimes strolling in the gardens. One of them seriously began to study botany; and the Cardinal-Dean, with a view to a future Bull, composed a very scathing indictment of that hypocritical anomaly called Christian Socialism. And all the time the pontifical army guarded the inside of every entrance, fraternizing through the gratings with the national army outside. But special correspondents of the London newspapers in Rome munched vacuity and excreted fibs, after their kind.

By twos and threes, plain (but very dignified) priests arrived: were admitted; and changed black for violet. One did not change. He was only Cardinal Courtleigh's new chaplain. The door of the Conclave was locked on both sides and bricked-up again.

Ensued another session of the Compromissaries, when their authentic act was put into prescribed form by apostolic prothonotaries. Ensued a final capitular assembly, in which the Act of the Compromise was published. Ensued a tempest of tongues and manners, dissolving (as storms do) in muttered thunders, less and less convulsive upheavals, a parcel of broken boughs and chimney-pots, stillness, peace, relief, and sun-bright April smiles.

CHAPTER III

When their lords had entered the Xystine Chapel for this last exercise, the conclavists went away about their own affairs; and the door was shut. The Reverend George Arthur Rose departed with the Bishop of Caerleon who was acting-chaplain to Cardinal Mundo. They walked in the royal gallery between the Xystine and the Pauline Chapels. George was in a mood of silence. His mind (as usual) was receiving impressions: the historic scene being enacted under his notice: the magnificent masks veiling the humanity of the actors: the mysterious gloom of the stage, its smallness, its air of cavernous confinement: the sour oppressive septic odour of architectural and waxen and human antiquity. He had been told that he would have to say mass before noon; and his head ached from fasting in that indescribably stifling effluvia. He remembered that, in former days necessity frequently had forced him to abstain from all food for a hundred hours at a time. Often, during four days in the week, he had eaten nothing: but that was in the open air, on the shore of a northern sea, or among the heather on moors and mountains, where the wind and the spray gave life. Here, the fast of less than twenty hours made him sick and sulky. However, it had to be tolerated. Semphill once had told him that a course in an ecclesiastical college, and the first few years of clerical life, were as disgusting as ten years' penal servitude. He took it at that with his eyes open. It was part of the business. He determined to go through with it. Still, he was in a better position now than he ever had been before. He no longer was alone. Dr. Talacryn had seemed anxious for his company since that day in London; and George was inclined to value kindness. The Bishop of Caerleon appeared to be precisely what the new-fledged priest knew himself to need—a sympathetic expert subintelligent walking-stick, honest and sturdy as oak. Oh, for the certainty of fidelity! Presently George took out his cherished edition of Theokritos by Estienne. In spare moments, he was introducing his companion to the melody of Greek; and together they read and analyzed the twelfth idyll.

An hour later, the bishop suggested that they should go into the Pauline Chapel and say some prayers. George followed him. Prayer is a mind-cleanser—the best: anyhow it is an effort always due. They looked for a clean four-feet-of-floor: kneeled side by side; and got into communication with the Unseen. George's method was intellectual rather than formal. To him, with his keen and carefully cultivated sense of the ridiculous, the absurdity of a human individual composing complacent criticisms of Divine decrees, hashing up scriptural and liturgical tags with a proper and essentially sensuous pleasure in patchwork, seemed like gratuitous impertinence. "Dear Jesus, be not to me a Judge, but a Saviour," was all the form of words which he used. It included everything, as far as he could see. He repeated it over and over again and again like a wonderful incantation; and anon it had its psychic effect. He became in direct communication with the Invisible Omniscient, to Whom all hearts are open, from Whom no secrets are hid. It was just his own method, compiled from bitter-sweet experience. In time, he began to finger his moonstone rosary, concentrating his meditation on the Mystery of the Annunciation: his mind strenuously went to work on that: his lips swiftly enunciated the prayers. After five decades he said Salve Regina: and examined his conscience. Was there any difference in him? He felt more clear: he felt that he had effected some kind of a difference. That was relief. But was it worth anything? Wasn't it stained? Was he really strengthened by the exercise? For example, was he now filled and inflamed with pure Love? No. Was he any nearer to pure Love, fit to be thought of, even harshly, by pure Love? No. Well: he had done his best: it would come some day. God be merciful to us all poor sinners.

He looked at the bishop, two weeks his junior in years, two centuries his senior in worth of every kind. The cheerful satisfied stolidity of that one, turning from his prayers and meeting George's gaze with a homely smile, was something astounding. How different men are! Here was one envying the other his stolidity, and the other half afraid of the agility of the one. George realized that this bishop never had had embarrassments of any kind: nor could have. He saw the great gulph which is fixed between the simple and the complex.

There was a stir at the door of the chapel. "I think perhaps we'd better be getting back," said Dr. Talacryn.

Two masters-of-ceremonies appeared in attendance upon Cardinal-Archdeacon Macca and Cardinal-Deacon Berstein. As George and his companion approached them, they turned and retraced their steps. George wished them anywhere but there, impeding him when he ought to be running-off to the service of his diocesan. They completely blocked the path as they went before him with superb unconcern. "How stiff, how antipathetic the elder one looks!" he whispered with acerbity.

"Sh-h-h!" the bishop sibilated.

The door of the Xystine Chapel was open. Conclavists from all quarters hurried towards it. George and his friend found themselves impelled through the portals. Beyond the delicate marble screen, gleamed the six steady flamelets of the candles on the altar. The protentous figures in the Doom appeared to writhe.

Inside the screen Macca and Berstein went; and paused; and faced the crowd which followed them.

George was looking about him, vehemently alert. He had felt like this three times in his life before, at the exsequies of the Queen of England, at the incoronation of the King of England, at the foot of the first grave which had opened in his path through life. It was the feeling of the cognoscente who is permitted, during sixty seconds, to do his own pleasure in a treasure-chest filled to the brim with inestimable intagliate gems. It was the feeling of absolute acquisitiveness. Here was history in the making; and he was in the front rank of the spectators. There was no time to think of effects. This was a case of causes; and every detail must be seized and stored. Selection could come later: appreciation afterwards: but now he must collect. First, his glance flashed upward to the little square canopies: they all were in position. Then, to the occupants of the five and fifty thrones: they were sitting as still as the conscript-fathers sat in their curule chairs, turned-to and watching the crowd which oozed through the screen-gates. Unconsciously, George was urged further and further in. His demeanour was abstrusely unemotional: he continued violently absorbent of the spectacle. Presently, he whispered to the bishop, "What is it? What is happening?"

"I think God has given us a Pope."

"Oh! Whom?"

"Wait. We shall know in a minute."

The silence, the stillness, the dim light, where motionless forms of cardinals curved like the frozen crests of waves carven in white jade and old ivory on a sea of amethyst, were more than marvellous.

A voice came out of the gloom, an intense voice, reciting some formula.

George did not take the Latin easily from an Italian tongue: he found himself translating, Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontificality?

"Reverend?" he thought. Why not "Most Eminent"? He instantly turned to the bishop, with another question on his tongue. The bishop was kneeling behind him. The crowd also was kneeling. Why in the world did not he kneel too? Why should he hesitate for a moment? He faced round once more, a single black figure with an alert weary white face, alone and erect in the splendour of violet. He glanced again at the canopies.

It was on him, on him, that all eyes were. Why did he not kneel?

Again the voice of the Cardinal-Archdeacon intoned, "Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontificality?"

There was no mistake. The awful tremendous question was addressed to him.

A murmur from the bishop prompted him, "The response is Volo—or Nolo."

The surging in his temples, the booming in his ears, miraculously ceased. He took one long slow breath: crossed right hand over left upon his breast: became like a piece of a pageant; and responded "I will."

Two hands clapped, and the canopies came down rustling and flapping. The Sacred College struggled to its feet, as God's Vicegerent passed to the rear of the high altar.

They offered Him three suits of pontifical white, large, medium, and small. The large was too large: the small, too small: but the medium would serve for the present. He began to undress, among the throng of assistants, with the noncurance of one accustomed to swim in Sandford Lasher. He forbade all help, refusing to be touched. When He had assumed the white hosen, cassock, sash, rochet, cape, and cap, the crimson shoes and stole, the great new gold Ring of The Fisherman, He went through His former pockets leaving nothing behind: tucked His handkerchief into His left sleeve; and asked for the Bishop of Caerleon. While masters-of-ceremonies and the Augustinian sacristan hurried to prepare altars for the episcopal consecration of the Pope, Dr. Talacryn was admitted to the Apostolic presence. He made obeisance: the moment was too enormous for words, but eyes spoke.

"A glass of water," then the Pontiff said.

"The fast, Holy Father——"

"Will not be broken. Remain always close at hand, please." He felt as though the whole world suddenly had left Him. Not that He Himself had moved, or changed: but the world, the past, was entirely gone and blotted out: the future was obscure: the present was all strange. His unrelated idea was to steady Himself by this one link with the past. Water was brought. He dipped half His handkerchief: wrang it out: pressed it on His hot dry eyes.

All through the long ceremony of consecration, He carried Himself with enigmatical equanimity. Though His eyes saw nothing but the matters of each moment, and though His bearing seemed to indicate an aloof indifference, yet, within, His sensibilities were at their tensest. Nothing escaped Him. And He was mobilizing His forces: planning His campaign. He was looking-down, He was surveying, the opening vista. Two or three moves on the apostolic chess-board He already could foresee.

At the conferring of the episcopal ring, He drew-back His hand; and demanded an amethyst instead of the proffered emerald. The ceremony halted till the canonical stone came. Cardinals noted the first manifestation of pontifical will, with much concern, and with some annoyance. Ragna muttered of ignoble upstarts: Vivole, of boyish arrogance: Berstein, of beggars on horseback. "He, who is born of a hen, always scratches the ground," asserted the Benedictine Cacciatore: and "He, who was a frog, is now a king," Labeur quoted from the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter.

They brought Him before the altar; and set Him in a crimson-velvet chair, asking what pontifical name He would choose.

"Hadrian the Seventh:" the response came unhesitatingly, undemonstratively.

"Your Holiness would perhaps prefer to be called Leo, or Pius, or Gregory, as is the modern manner?" the Cardinal-Dean inquired with imperious suavity.

"The previous English pontiff was Hadrian the Fourth: the present English pontiff is Hadrian the Seventh. It pleases Us; and so, by Our Own impulse, We command."

Then there was no more to be said. The election of Hadrian the Seventh was proclaimed in the Conclave. They came to the ceremony of adoration. One by one, Their Eminencies kissed the Supreme Pontiff's foot and hand and cheek. Contact with senile humanity made His juvenile soul shudder. All the time he was saying in His mind "Not unto Us, O Lord, not unto Us...." Yet that seemed such a silly inadequate thing to say. It was not humility, it was physical loathing which nauseated Him all secretly. Some had the breaths of bustards, and all but one were hot. He would have liked to tear off His Own cheek with clawed tongs. By a peculiar mental gymnastic, He vaulted to the verse, "Who sweeps an house as in Thy Sight makes that and th' action fine." He clutched the thought and clung to it. "Greatest and Best, or by what other Name Thou wishest to be called, I am only Thy means. This horrible osculation is no more than a chance for them to benefit themselves by honouring Thee through me. Let them. I will be the means—Thy means to all men. Ouf! How it hurts!" His external serenity was unflinchingly feline. He just tolerated attention. The arrows of cardinalitial eyes impinged upon Him; and glanced off the ice of His mail. He withdrew His sensibilities from the surface; and concentrated them in the inmost recesses of his soul, foreseeing, forescheming. "One step's enough for me" was another tag, which became detached from the bundles of His memory to float in the ocean of His counsels. He made sure of the one step: fearlessly strode and stood; and prepared for the next. He never looked behind. The amethyst, the pontifical name, and now——? Yes! "Begin as you mean to go on," He advised Himself.

When the huge princes of the church bourgeoned in ermine and vermilion, Hadrian, mitred and coped in silver and gold, followed Macca who bore the triple cross. Tumultuous sumptuous splendour proceeded through the Conclave into the gallery of benediction over the porch of St. Peter's. Masons were removing brickwork from a blocked window leading to a balcony on the right hand, half-way down the long gallery. The Supreme Pontiff beckoned Orezzo.

"Lord Cardinal, this balcony looks-into the church?"

"Into the church, Holiness."

"Which window looks-out over the City?"

"The window on the left."

"Let the window on the left be opened."

The Sacred College swung together as to a scrum.

Pressure never had influenced George Arthur Rose. He used to say that you might squash him to death, if you could: but you never should make him do what you were too lazy, or too proud, or too silly, to persuade him to do. He would wait a century for his own way; and, unless you actually and literally had removed him from the face of the earth by the usual methods of assassination, you would find him still implacably persistent at the end of the said century. He had learned the trick from Flavio: observing that, if he would not open the door when the cat mewed to go out, the creature remained in the room, but would not come and sit on his friend's neck, nor agree to anything except the opening of the door. And Hadrian the Seventh was quite prepared to be hustled and hullabaloed-at, as Leo the Thirteenth had been hullabaloed at and hustled in 1878: but no earthly power should extort Apostolic Benediction from His hand and lips, except at a place and a time of His Own choosing. They might push this Pope on to the inner balcony; and they might lead a horse to the water: but not even the College of Cardinals arrayed in all its glory could make the one drink, the other bless.

"Holiness, that window was bricked-up in 1870; and has not been opened since."

"Let it now be opened."

Ragna snarled and burst out of the phalanx. There was a tinge of truculence about him. "Holiness, Pope Leo wished to have had it opened on the day of His Own election; but it was impossible. Impossible! Capisce? The rust of the stanchions, the solidity of the cement——"

"All that We know. The gentleness of Pope Leo was persuaded. We are not gentle; and We are not to be persuaded by violence."

Orezzo, though secretly inchanted that anyone should act differently to his one antipathy, Pope Leo, was rather shocked at the notion of blessing the City and the World while (what he held to be) the Piedmontese Usurper was occupying Peter's so-called Patrimony and Intangible Rome. It is an ingrained idea with his school that peoples should excruciate for the petty spites of potentates. But he tried urbanity. "Holy Father have pity upon us; and deliver us as soon as possible from the miseries which afflict us in this Conclave. Deign blessings to the faithful in the church to-day; and we will see what can be done about the other affair to-morrow."

Hadrian looked a little amused. The Bishop of Caerleon thought that he never had seen more cruelly dispassionate inflexibility. At a sign from the Pope, the master-mason came forward and fell on his knees. Hadrian stooped.

"Son, open that window."

Through and through vermilion billows the masons dived and thrust across the breadth of the gallery, conveying ladders, crowbars, hammers. Conclavial porters threw down rolls of carpet which they were about to spread, and sat upon them. Berstein squawked and expectorated. Hadrian winced: and marked the man. At the clang of hammers, masonry began to fall: a white dust hovered in the air: the vermilion college swept away with the white Pope. Some went to the end of the gallery, where loud voices became protestant: midway, the Germans halted with most of the Italians: they conversed more moderately. A few paces beyond the range of operations, the Pope remained quite still: by His side, He detained Macca with His cross: behind Him, congregated the Bishop of Caerleon and the nine Cardinal-Compromissaries.

In a break of the clang of the hammers, Hadrian intoned "Kyrie eleēson." Mundo gave prompt response. The assemblage at first failed to catch the idea: but, by degrees, voice acceded to voice; and the Litanies of the Saints magniloquently reverberated through the gallery.

Outside, in the Square of St. Peter's, only a few hundreds of people were collected. Interest in the proceedings of the Conclave was nearly dead; and several special correspondents were beginning to think seriously of the superior excitements of a murder-trial at New Bailey. But many old-fashioned Romans wished to be able to tell their grand-children that they themselves had been in the square when the Pope was proclaimed in the church; and, again, on the morning of St George's Day, no smoke had been vomited from the Xystine chimney. The affair was very mysterious! What combinations behind those white walls!

Inside the basilica, there were thousands of expectant people, officials of the Vatican, cardinalitial familiars, prelates, penitentiaries, beneficiaries, who had not been immured in the Conclave. Also there were lords and ladies of eminent quality belonging to the Black (or clerical) Party, who had been admitted with meticulous secrecy (in broad day-light and in face of all Rome) by a privy door. Every day for weeks, they had come and waited, hoping to be among the first to salute the Pope. To go to St. Peter's in the morning before dinner, and in the evening before supper, had become the mode in a society which has few and futile dissipations of its own and to which the comity of the Quirinale and White Society is forbidden fruit. Some, who were near the great doorway, thought they heard faint tappings in the gallery over-head. Rumour protruded her tongue: certainly there were tappings, more ponderous, more insistent. Certainly the balcony was being opened. Then the crashing ceased. In the hush, surmises were born; and stifled: or nurtured. A loose Benedictine with a face of a flesher, who was leaning against one of the great piers, suddenly asseverated that the tapping had begun again: but in another place—further away, he said. An honorary decurial chamberlain-of-the-cloak-and-sword sniffed long-nosedly, picking a vandyke beardlet; and stuttered, "They're n-n-never o-opening the outer b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-balcony." That notion resembled the spark between negative and positive poles. It vibrated and glittered; and fell upon a heap of human combustibles.

"Then what are we waiting here for?" shouted Prince Clenalotti; and he made a dash at the door by which he had entered. Naturally he led a stampede.

The crowd in the Square stood obliquely to the church, with all its eyes directed to the Vatican: when, round from Via della Sagrestia poured a stream of half-wild creatures, shooting instant glances at the vacant balcony, and bringing amazing news. The two crowds flew together, thronging the wide stone steps and the open space beneath. The military rigesced to attention. The special correspondents (as one man) made for the obelisk in the centre, or the basins of the fountains, and set-up portable pairs of steps. And, of course, motor-cars and cabs, and Caio and Tizio and also Sempronio, not to mention Maria and Elena and Yolanda and also Margherita, began to issue from every Borgo avenue.

There was nothing to be seen, except the empty balcony over the porch. It was neither canopied nor decorated: but someone said that there was movement behind the window. That was concisely true. More. The window itself was moving. The sun-flashed panes of glass turned dull, as it swung on its hinges, inward. The Italian army presented arms. Rome kneeled on the stones. The special correspondents ascended their pairs of steps: directed phonographic and kinematographic machines: pressed buttons and revolved wheels.

A tiny figure splashed a web of cloth-of-gold over the balcony; and a tiny ermine and vermilion figure ascended, placing a tiny triple cross. Came in a stentorian megaphonic roar a proclamation by the Cardinal-Archdeacon,

"I announce to you great joy. We have for a Pope the Lord George of the Roses of England, Who has imposed upon Himself the name of Hadrian the Seventh."

He gave place to another tiny figure, silver and gold, irradiant in the sun. A clear thin thread of a voice sang, "Our help is in the Name of the Lord."

Phonographs recorded the sonorous response, "Who hath made heaven and earth."

Hadrian the Seventh raised His hand and sang again, "May Almighty God, ✠ ✠ ✠ Father, ✠ ✠ ✠ Son, ✠ ✠ ✠ and Holy Ghost, bless you."

It was the Apostolic Benediction of the City and the World.

CHAPTER IV

Now things went briskly. There was a brain which schemed and a will to be obeyed. The hands began to realize that they would have to act manually. Dear deliberate Rome simply gasped at a Pontiff Who said "To-morrow" and meant it. The Sacred College found that it had no option. Naturally it looked as black as night. But the Cardinal-Archdeacon could not refuse point-blank to crown; and, when Hadrian announced that His incoronation would take place in the morning on the steps of St. Peter's, futile effort suggested difficulty preventing possibility. That was the only course open to the opposition. Three cardinals in turn alleged that there would not be time to give notice of the ceremony, to arrange the church, to issue tickets of admission. Hadrian swept these ideas aside, as rubbish. Another courted catastrophe saying that there was no time to summon the proper officials. He heard that there were sixteen hours in which to summon those who actually were indispensable. A fifth said that, owing to the antichristian tendencies of the times, no representatives of the King of France, of the Holy Roman Emperor, of the First Conservator of the Roman people, were forthcoming; and he politely inquired how the quadruplex lavation could be performed in their absence? The Pope responded that He was capable of washing His hands four times without any assistance, in the absence of legitimate assistants: but the General of the Church was not to seek: the modern Syndic of Rome was the equivalent of the ancient First Conservator: the Austrian Ambassador could represent the Empire: while, as for wretched kingless unkingly France—let someone instantly go out into the streets of Rome and catch the first Christian Frenchman there encountered. Anyhow, the quadruplex lavation was accidental. The essential was that the Supreme Pontiff should sing a pontifical mass at the high altar of St. Peter's, and should receive the triple crown. These things would be done at eight o'clock on the following morning. All the doors of the basilica were to be fixed open at midnight; and so remain. No official notice need be published. And that was all. Then the Pope shut-up Himself in His predecessor's gorgeous rooms, inspecting them till they gave him a pain in His eyes. Luckily He had secured his pouchfull of tobacco and a book of cigarette-papers: He smoked, and thought, looking out of the windows over Rome.

After sunset, He ate some cutlets and a salad: placed two chairs face to face near the right-hand window; and sent for the Bishop of Caerleon and a large jug of milk. His interior arrangements were as disreputably healthy as those of a school-boy.

Dr. Talacryn came, and observed the forms. Hadrian sent him to clear the antechambers and to close the doors. He returned and remained standing. The Pope was sitting in one of the splendidly uncomfortable red chairs.

"We have sent for Your Lordship because We have occasion for your special services."

"I am at all times very ready and willing to serve Your Holiness."

Hadrian was attracted to this bishop. Lots of his acts He loathed: but He liked the man, and believed him honest. The bishop was attracted to the Pope. He liked Him: but he could not understand Him, and was a little frightened of Him: but still—it was as well to know all that could be known and that might be useful.

"We placed this chair for Your Lordship," said Hadrian.

Dr. Talacryn was astonished: but not more than much. His trained placid nature stood him in good stead at a mark of favour which would have abashed many, and rendered others presumptuous.

"I thank Your Holiness," he simply said. It appeared that the ship was cleared for action.

The Pope continued in His usual concise monotone. He spoke in the key of E♭ minor, very quickly indeed, slurring the letter r, clipping some words and every final g, enunciating others with emphasis, in a manner curiously suggestive of fur and india-rubber and talons. As for His matter, He seemed to be arguing with Himself by the way in which He arrayed His ideas, disclosing His process of thought.

"We have very much to do, and We are confronted by the physical impossibility of carrying out Our schemes. We find Ourself surprizingly placed at the head of affairs. We believe that We should not have been placed there unless the service, which We are able to do, had been deemed desirable. Therefore We feel bound to act. But, though We know (or shall know) what to do, yet We cannot do it with this one pair of hands. We must have assistants with whom we can be intimate, and who themselves can be sympathetic. First of all, We wish to have Your Lordship."

The bishop was quite honest enough to get a little rosier with pleasure.

"Very pleased, whatever," he said.

"Next, We need information. Do you know the circumstances which led to Our election?"

"In the main they are known to me, Holiness. Indeed, I may say that they are generally known—except to the Supreme Pontiff Himself," the bishop added, with an episcopally roguish smile.

Hadrian enjoyed the point. "Please bear this dogma carefully and continually in mind:—the Pope well-informed is wiser than the Pope ill-informed. Remember also that Hadrian at all times desires to know everything. At present He wishes to know what you know about His election. Briefly: the details can be given later."

"Briefly, the Conclave found no Pope by the ordinary means; and committed the task to certain Cardinal-Compromissaries. These chose Your Holiness."

"But why?"

"Cardinal Courtleigh——"

"Was he a Compromissary? How many were there?"

"He was one of nine. The others were——"

"Never mind their names for the moment. Now We take it that these nine cardinals are well-disposed toward Us?"

"Most assuredly, Holy Father."

"Good! Nine! The names please?"

"Courtleigh, Grace——"

"Archbishop of Baltimore. Yes?"

"Saviolli——"

"What is he? He formerly was nuncio or something in America, was he not? Please give the status of each."

"He was Archbishop of Lepanto and Pontifical Ablegate to the United States of America. Now he is one of the curia. Then came della Volta, formerly Major-domo, also of the curia: he, by the bye, is Your Holiness's Double, according to Cardinal Courtfield."

"How delicious!" Hadrian vivaciously put in.

"Mundo, who led the Compromissaries, is Patriarch of Lisbon. Nefski is Archbishop of Prague, poor fellow——"

"Why 'poor fellow'?"

"Oh he was nearly killed by the anarchists.—Well then, Ferraio is Archbishop of Milan: Gentilotto is Prefect-General of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, and Fiamma is Archbishop of Bologna. The two last were candidates at first, but gave it up by consenting to become Compromissaries."

"These, you say, are well-disposed to Us?"

"Yes, Holy Father."

"A Kelt: an American: a Portugal: five Italians: and a Pole."

"No, a Bohemian, Holiness."

"Oh?" Hadrian directed the bishop to a writing-table. "Now, whether this be in accordance with regulations or not, We neither know nor care. Please write"—He sipped a glass of milk; and began to dictate—"'Hadrian VII.—Bishop,—Servant of the servants of God,—wills that you immediately shall come—to Him—in the Vatican Palace—at Rome. Nothing—except the gravest physical inability—or your duty to your family—if such there be—is to impede you. All Catholics—are to afford you—the comfort—conveyance—and assistance—of which you may stand in need.' Please sign it with your own name and make five copies of it."

The bishop, sighing for his typewriter, diligently wrote in an angular oblique almost illegible hand. Electric lights sprang up in the City. The Pope lighted candles, closed the curtains, and rolled a cigarette. Then He came and sat by the table, looking at the manuscripts—considering the huge ring on His Own index-finger. Smiling to Himself, He took a taper and a stick of sealing-wax; and produced the Little-Peter-in-a-Boat at the foot of the six sheets.

"Address them," He continued, "to the Reverend George Semphill, St. Gowff's, North Britain:—Reverend James Sterling, Oakheath, Stafford:—Reverend George Leighton, Shorham, Sussex:—Reverend Gerald Whitehead, Wilton, Warwick:—Reverend Robert Carvale, Duntellin, Ayrshire:—and—yes, do you know that eighteen years ago he had the most exquisitely beautiful face and the most exquisitely beautiful soul and the most exquisitely horrible voice of any boy in the college,—address the sixth to Percy Van Kristen, 2023 Madison Avenue, New York."

While Dr. Talacryn was closing the envelopes, the Pope Himself wrote on a sheet of paper which, also, He sealed:

Hadrianus P.M. VII. dilectissimo filio Francisco Talacryni Caerleonis Episcopo.

Te in cardinalem Designamus et Approbamus: quod tamen sub silentio tenebis donec tempus idoneum aderit.

Datum Romae. Sub annulo Piscatoris. Anno pontificatus Nostri I., a.d. viiii Kal. Mai.

"Now please come and kneel here," He said.

The bishop looked an inquiry: but he came round the table, and kneeled before the Pope, Who addressed him in these words:—

"Well-beloved son, Francis Talacryn, Bishop of Caerleon, We appoint thee to, and confirm thee in, the cardinalature. But thou shalt not disclose the fact until the proper time."

So saying, He lightly pinched-together the bishop's lips, putting the breve into his hand.

"Silence," the Pontiff continued. "Now will you yourself go to San Silvestro,—not to the post-office here,—and stamp and post those letters. One thing more. There will be no hitch to-morrow? Right. Then, after leaving San Silvestro, will you find Prince Pilastro and Prince Orso, and tell them——We certainly shall have the support of these nine? Good.—Well, quite informally let those princes (as Princes-Assistant at the Pontifical Throne) know of Our insuing incoronation. When you have named that to Prince Pilastro, say, also informally, that the Supreme Pontiff wishes the Syndic of Rome to know that, when He has received the crowns, He intends to go to Lateran to take possession of His episcopal see. No. There is to be no fuss. We will go as simply as possible and on foot. Will you always be quite near? We name you train-bearer; and will make your office a sinecure. God bless you. Da b'och a dibechod."

Hadrian remained standing at the antechamber-door, watching the bishop's big figure disappear along the corridor. He thought it a pity that a tendency to corpulency was not checked by healthy physical exercise. A detachment of the Swiss Guard stood armed and motionless at regular intervals. "For me," was His plebeian thought. A small man appeared, bowing. He had a servile air. Hadrian's second glance recognised him. "Is there an apartment on the top storey above this?" He inquired.

"But yes, Holiness, a large apartment of smaller rooms not having the altitude of these."

"You will cause them to be emptied by noon to-morrow. Now you can go to bed. Please take care that no one comes inside this door until the morning."

The Pope closed the door: and returned through the antechambers and the throne-room to the table where He had been working. He sat on the edge of the table for about an hour, swinging a leg, thinking, and sipping milk. Then He took a candle, and went into a dressing-room with huge oak clothes-presses. Opening their doors, He looked for a cloak among piles and festoons of new clothes. There were several of crimson velvet. After vainly searching for something plain, He put on one of these and proceeded to the outer door, taking a breviary from the table on the way. Out in the corridor, He signed to the nearest guard. The black-red-yellow-and-steel figure came and kneeled.

"Do you know the way into St. Peter's?" the Pope said.

"But yes, Most Holy Father."

"Procure what keys are necessary and conduct Us thither, son."

"But securely, Most Holy Father."

The Swiss went on before. Hadrian followed, feeling annoyed by the salutes with which He was received along the way. He had been so long unnoted that notice irritated and abashed Him. Life would be unbearable if trumpets and quaint halberds greeted every movement. He had not the stolidity of born personages. Presently, He threw back His cloak and kept head and hand raised in a gesture which petrified. They passed through innumerable passages and descended stairs, emerging in a chapel where lights burned about a tabernacle of gilded bronze and lapis lazuli. Here He paused, while His escort unlocked the gates of the screen. Once through that, He sent-back the guard to his station: but He Himself went-on into the vast obscurity of the basilica. He walked very slowly: it was as though His eyes were wrapped in clear black velvet, so intense and so immense was the darkness. Then, very far away to the right, He saw as it were a coronal of dim stars glimmering,—on the floor, they seemed to be. He was in the mighty nave; and the stars were the ever-burning lamps surrounding the Confession. He slowly approached them. As He passed within them, He took one from its golden branch and descended the marble steps. Here, He spread the cloak on the floor; placed the lamp beside it: and fell to prayer. Outside, in the City and the World, men played, or worked, or sinned, or slept. Inside at the very tomb of the Apostle the Apostle prayed.

At midnight, bolts of great doors clanged, and fell. A cool air crept in. Subsacristans set-up iron candlesticks, huge, antique, here and there upon the marmoreal pavement. The burning torch of each made a little oasis of light in the immeasurable gloom. From far away, a slim white form which carried a crimson cloak swiftly came, shedding benedictions on the startled beholders; and disappeared in the chapel of the Sacrament.

On returning to His apartment, Hadrian went straight to bed, invoking the souls in purgatory to awaken Him at six o'clock. He slept instantly and well.

At seven o'clock He had paid His debt with the De Profundis; and was dressed and waiting in the throne-room. Entered to Him a dozen cardinals, two by two. Opening their ranks, they disclosed the Cardinal-Prior-Priest solemnly ostending the image of a cock in silver-gilt. Hadrian stood on the steps of the throne, still, erect, vivid. He seemed so brimming over with restrained energy that He resembled a white flame. Not a sound was uttered. In silence they came; and they went away in silence. When the Pontiff was alone again, He strode and stopped in the middle of the floor.

"No, Lord, I never will deny Thee—never!" He exclaimed with tremendous emphasis. "But keep me and teach me and govern me, that I may govern and teach and keep Thy Flock, O Thou Shepherd of the people."

When the Bishop of Caerleon conveyed the extraordinary news to the Syndic of Rome, Prince Pilastro at once inquired what arrangements were made.

"No arrangements are made."

"But look here," said Marcantonio, who affected English brusqueness, "of course we are very happy that the Holy Father should come among us: but, you know, we are bound by our own guarantees to give Him all the honours of a sovereign-regnant. We shall be shamed in the eyes of Europe if we omit those. What I mean by that is this is a state-progress; and we shall have to turn out the troops, and stop the traffic and line the streets——"

"I don't think His Holiness expects you to do all that, Prince. I'm not speaking officially; and I'm not bringing you an official request for anything of the kind which you name. The Holy Father says He is going quite simply—on foot, in fact."

"Now I should just like to know what the devil (if Your Splendour will excuse the French) that means."

"Perhaps His Holiness thinks that the movement of the sedia gestatoria, or of a litter, will make Him sick. It did with Leo, you know."

"What's the matter with a white mule?"

"I happen to know that He cannot ride."

"Peuh! No sportsman, then! And yet He's English?"

"Yes: but not the kind of sportsman you mean, Prince."

"Well: what does He want me to do?"

"Let's say that I am sent to warn you of His intention, in order that you may arrest Him for disturbing the traffic, if you choose."

"Of course we shan't do that."

"No: of course you won't. That's only my way of putting it. I think He really means to advise you beforehand, so that it can never be said that He played you a trick, took you unawares, stole a march on you, so to speak."

"I see. Well, this is one of the amazing things which you English do as a matter of course. It's either frantic madness, or—— Will His Holiness go in any sort of state?"

"I think not. You see time is short; and (between ourselves) I'm not at all sure that we're all of one mind over there."

"By rights, you know, I ought to walk with Orso, just before the ambassadors. Does Orso know about this walking business?"

"No. Only of the incoronation."

"That means that there will be no formal procession. It is well. You see, as Pilastro, I walk with Orso in the Pope's progress: while, as Syndic of Rome, I ought to walk at the head of the pontifical pages who precede His Blessedness. I can't do both, can I? Well, I request Your Splendour to convey my respects to our Holy Father; and to say that Prince Pilastro will assist at the throne during the incoronation, and the Syndic of Rome will go before the Pope to Lateran."

"You will not take the chance of coming to blows with Prince Orso on the question of precedence then?" joked the bishop.

"But no. During the incoronation I shall secure the right hand; and the Pope will be between us. Afterward, no question of precedence will arise, because Orso may or may not join in this promenade to Lateran; and in each case the Syndic will have the more honourable position. I may not be the rose: but at least I shall be near the Rose—a great deal nearer than Orso," punned the versatile Marcantonio.

At eight in the morning, Hadrian descended to St. Peter's. Miscellaneous multitudes paved the spaces with tumultuous eyes. He came down in ruddy vesture, gleaming with rubies and garnets and carbuncles like a fire borne high above the crowd, slowly, deliberately, dropping benedictions. His English phlegm was much admired. They roared at Him, Long live the Pope-King. Instantly He stopped His bearers; and the very air of Him struck sudden silence. People stared, and forgot to shout: the wave of acclamation ebbed in the great nave and transepts. He moved onward, sitting erect, god-like, with a frozen mien prohibiting personal homage. Mitred and enthroned, He was the servant of those who would serve Him: that was the import of His demeanour. A child acolyth of the lowest rank held up before him a salver containing flax: set it on fire; and shrilled,

"Behold most Holy Father, how that the glory of this world passeth away."

His features shewed no emotion. He well knew all about that. He was accepting, even insisting on, the observance of all rites to consolidate Him in the Supreme Pontificature: not that He cared for them, but that He might be free to act. It was not the glory of the world which He craved: but the combat, the combat—because one rests so much more sweetly after strife.

Slowly, and with all the unspeakable solemnity accumulated during centuries, the mass was sung. The Apostle elevated the Host to the four quarters of the globe. Cardinals ruffled like huge flamingoes round Him. He always was white and still. At the end, the Cardinal-Archpriest of St. Peter's brought Him a damask purse containing twenty-five gold coins, honorarium for a mass well-sung. He bestowed it on della Volta and Sega, who had intoned the Gospel in Greek and Latin; and they passed it to their train-bearers. Down the nave, He went again toward the great porch. Out of the crowd a voice cried "Christus regnat." As He sat enthroned amid the surging peoples, Macca crowned Him, saying,

"Receive this tiara adorned with three crowns, and know Thyself to be the Ruler of the World, the Father of Princes and Kings, the earthly Vicar of Jesus Christ our Saviour."

Hadrian understood the formula in no metaphorical, but in the plain and literal, sense of the words. He neither minimised nor magnified their significance. He had an opportunity which was entirely grateful to Him. He was Ruler, Father, Vicar. And He was altogether unafraid. He stood up, and blessed the City and the World.

In the Xystine Chapel, they relieved Him of the pontifical regalia, and the voluminous far-flowing petticoat of white taffetas, which is so sumptuous to the eye of the beholden and so ridiculously cumbersome to the legs of the wearer; and He ate some apples while Orezzo, on behalf of the Sacred College, recited time-honoured compliments.

"Lord Cardinals," said Hadrian, "We thank you for your service: and We invite those of you who are able and willing to attend Us, now, when We go to take possession of Our episcopal see."

He moved towards the door. The short train of His cassock trailed behind Him, and the Bishop of Caerleon stooped to it.

Ragna had something to howl.

"Holiness, this is suicide for You and murder for us. The City is full of Jews and Freemasons; and we shall most assuredly be stabbed, or shot, or shattered to pieces with bombs, or drenched with vitrol——"

"The Church wants a martyr badly. Your Eminency is invited, not commanded."

Berstein muttered to Vivole, in a scandalized tone, that the Pope was courting popularity. Pepato, with a note of admiration, commented on the mad English. Word of the invitation rushed on ahead. Of the crowd of officials, many began to arrange themselves in a certain order: others had pressing calls elsewhere. Masters-of-ceremonies, wracking their brains for long forgotten details, flew hither and thither with instructions and pushes. Poor old Grani sat down in a recess; and wept to think that there was no time to get out the white gennets annually presented by the King of Spain. Hadrian came on slowly, chatting with Caerleon, giving people a chance of making up their minds. When He emerged from the colonnade in the Square of St. Peter's, the Syndic of Rome fell into the ranks just before the Pope; and a royal escort of the Prætorian Guard surrounded Him. Hadrian stopped; and beckoned Prince Pilastro.

"Sir Syndic, are We free?" He mewed.

"But free, Holy Father."

"Let your soldiers precede and not surround Us; and let no one come within ten paces of Us. We go by Via Giulia and Monte Celio."

The squadron moved to the head of the line. The Pope took His train from the Bishop: threw it over His left arm: and came-on alone. Acting as though the ideal were real, He made it real. If Jews and Freemasons would slay Him, well and good: it was part of the day's work, no doubt. He was by no means anxious to be martyred; and He sincerely hoped that, if it should come to Him, it would not be very painful or distorting. But, as it was His Own affair, a piece of the part He was fulfilling, He displayed Himself alone. Ten paces before Him went Prince Pilastro, looking back from time to time. Ten paces behind Him came the bishop, ruddy and strong in white and purple, wondering. The vermilion nine followed in a compact phalanx, very venerable and grand; and, after a great deal of bustle and noise, seventeen other cardinals added their magnificence. A motley of patriarchs, archbishops, bishops, prelates, and pontifical guards closed the rear.

A tremendous shout greeted Hadrian's first appearance in the square. It was quite incoherent: for the real significance of the pageant was not immediately realized. No Pope had set His foot in Rome since 1870: but here undoubtedly was the Pope, with a gentle inflexible face,—a lonely white figure Whose left hand lay on the little cross on His breast, Whose right hand gravely scattered the same sign. This crowd was not the even human parallels which authority is wont to describe on streets when the Great go by. It was a concurrence from side-ways coalescing with loafers and ordinary passers-by, suddenly dipping its knees, gazing, panting, and emitting howls of delirious onomatopes. Cabs and carts swept to the side of the road; and the drivers kneeled on the boxes. Here and there, some dowdy alien said "What mockery" and patronizingly explained that the Salvation Army did these things much more properly. Here and there, some sour sorry incapable stood spitting in praise of secret societies. Here and there some godless worldling scoffed in an undertone. But Hadrian went-on, walking at that deceptive pace of His, which seemed so leisurely and was so swift. His movements resembled the running of a perfectly-geared machine: they had the smooth and forceful grace of the athlete whose muscles are supple and strong: even the occasional impulse had no jerkiness. It was the manner with which He disguised His natural timidity. He sometimes glanced from side to side. Once He smiled at a bare-legged rascalt of brown boys who kneeled by one of Bernini's angels on the parapet of the bridge. He adored children, although He was so desperately afraid of them. Going up the hill by the Church of Sts. John and Paul, a little girl dabbed an indescribable rag on her head: rushed into the road, dashing primroses; and remained transfixed by her own audacity. He led her by the hand to her mother; and blessed them both. All His life long He had yearned to be giving. Now, under any circumstances, He always had something to give, ten words and a gesture; and people seemed so thankful for it. He was glad.

In the porch of the Mother and Mistress of All Churches in the City and the World, He sat on the low throne while canons made shift to intone, He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth the needy out of the dung-hill; that He may set Him with the Princes, even with the princes of His people. They gave Him gold and silver keys. They attended Him to the throne of precious marbles in the centre of the apse. They intoned Te Deum. Ascending to the lodge of benediction, He blessed the mobile vulgar in the Square of St. John; and anon returned in the way by which He came, Bishop of Rome in act and deed, and Supreme Pontiff.

CHAPTER V

Being physically tired with the exertion of withstanding the concentrated gaze of Rome, He rested all the afternoon. The palace was a scene of commotion. Cardinals and their familiars cackled and cooed and squeaked and growled in corners: or arranged for return to their distant sees. Workmen cleared-away the structure of the Conclave. Hadrian made an attempt to get-into the gardens with a book: but, obsequious black velvet chamberlains with their heads in frills like saucers made themselves so extremely necessary, and Auditors of the Ruota scudded along bye-paths with such obvious secrecy and bounded out of box-hedges before Him by carefully calculated accident so very frequently, that at last He took refuge in the pontifical apartment. He rang the gong and sent for Caerleon.