olic Unity, and therefore
that way of escape is barred. There was nothing for it, then, but
for my judges to pronounce sentence; and that they did, ten
minutes before you came in. (I saw you come in, Monsignor.) I am
sentenced, that is to say, as an obstinate heretic--as refusing
to submit to the plain meaning of an ecumenical decree. There
remains Rome. The whole trial must go there _verbatim_. Three
things may happen. Either I am summoned to explain any statements
that may seem obscure. (That certainly will not happen. I have
been absolutely open and clear.) Or the sentence may be quashed
or modified. And that I do not think will happen, since I have,
as I know, all the theologians against me."

There was a pause.

The prelate heard the words, and indeed followed their sense with
his intellect; but it appeared to him as if this concise analysis
had no more vital connection with the real facts than a doctor's
diagnosis with the misery of a mourner. He did not want analysis;
he wanted reassurance. Then he braced himself up to meet the
unfinished sentence. "Or----" he murmured.

"Or the sentence will be ratified," said the monk quietly. And
again there was silence. It was the monk again who broke it.
"Where Father Abbot seems to think you can help me perhaps,
Monsignor, is in persuading the Cardinal to write to Rome. I do
not quite know what he can do for me; but I suppose the idea is
that he may succeed in urging that the point is a disputed one,
and that the case had better wait for further scientific as well
as theological investigation."

Monsignor flung out his hands suddenly. The strain had reached
breaking-point.

"What's the good!" he cried. "It's the system--the whole system
that's so hateful . . . hateful and impossible."

"What?"

"It's the system," he cried again. "From beginning to end it's
the system that's wrong. I hate it more every day. It's brutal,
utterly brutal and unchristian." He stared miserably at the
young monk, astonished at the cold look in his eyes.

The monk looked at him questioningly--without a touch of
answering sympathy, it seemed--merely with an academic interest.

"I don't understand, Monsignor. What is it that you----"

"You don't understand! You tell me you don't understand! You who
are suffering under it! Why----"

"You think I'm being unjustly treated? Is that it? Of course I
too don't think that----"

"No, no, no," cried the elder man. "It's not you in particular.