it of the men I almost hated. I never liked
priests then. Instinctively I classed them as my enemies, even as my
personal enemies. Deep down in my heart I knew that, with the Catholic
Church eliminated from Christianity, the whole fabric tottered and
fell, and Christ was stamped with the mark of an impostor and a
failure--His life, His wonders, and His death, shams. Instinctively I
knew, too, that without the Catholic Church the Christian world would
fall to the level of Rome at its worst, and that every enemy of Christ
turned his face against her priests. I knew that every real atheist,
every licentious man, most revolutionists, every anarchist, hated a
priest. It annoyed me to think that they didn't hate me, the
representative, as I thought, of a purer religion. But they did not
hate me at all. They ignored the sacredness of my calling, and classed
me with themselves because of what they thought was the common bond of
enmity to the priest. I resented that, for, while I was against their
enemy, I certainly was not with them. The anomaly of my position
increased my bitterness toward priests until I came almost to welcome a
scandal among them, even though I knew that every scandal reacted on my
own kind. But each rare scandal served to throw into clearer relief
the high honor and stern purity of the great mass of those men who had
forsaken all to follow Christ. And my vague feeling of satisfaction
was tempered by an insistent sense of my own injustice which would not
be denied, for I knew that I was demanding of the Catholic priest
greater things than I demanded of any other men. Even while I
judged--and, judging, condemned--I knew that I was measuring him by his
own magnificent standard, the very seeking of which made him worthy of
honor. To have sought the highest goal and failed is better than never
to have sought at all. So long as life lasts, no failure is forever;
it is always possible to arise and return to the path. And a fall
should call forth the charity of the beholder, leading him closer to
God. But there is no charity for the Catholic priest who stumbles--no
return save in spaces hidden from the world. The most arrant
criminals, the most dangerous atheists, the most sincere Protestants,
demand of the priest not only literal obedience to his vows, but a
sublime observance of their spirit. Why, Mark, you demand it
yourself--you know you do."

For a moment Mark did not answer.

"Yes," he sa