t whole, to see them, not as isolated events,
but with the effect of the past upon them and their hidden
implications and probabilities for the future--this needed that
the observer should be of the temper and atmosphere of the time.
For prophecy just now was little better than feeling at outlines
in the dark. Facts could be discerned and apprehended by all--and
the priest was well aware of his own capacities in this--but
their interpretation was another matter altogether. . . . He felt
helpless and puzzled. . . .

The General came towards him.

"Well," he said, "anything to be seen?"

"Nothing."

"We may as well make our way down again. There's nothing to be
gained by stopping here."

As they made their way down again through the covered passage,
the General once more began to talk about the crisis.

Monsignor had heard it all before; but he listened for all that.
It seemed to him worth while to collect opinions; and this
soldier's very outspoken remarks cast a sort of sharp clarity
upon the situation that the priest found useful. The
establishment of the Church in England was being regarded on the
Continent as a kind of test case; and even more by the
Anglo-Saxon countries throughout the world. In itself it was not
so vast a step forward as might be thought. It would make no very
radical changes in actual affairs, since the Church already
enjoyed enormous influence and complete liberty. But the point
was that it was being taken as a kind of symbol by both sides;
and this explained on the one hand the tactics of the Government
in bringing it suddenly forward, and the extraordinary zeal with
which the Socialists were demonstrating against it.

"The more I think of it," said the General, "the more----"

Monsignor stepped suddenly aside into the embrasure at which they
had halted on the way up.

"What's the matter?"

"I thought I saw----"

The General uttered a sharp exclamation, pressing his head over
the priest's shoulder.

"That's the second," whispered the priest harshly.

Together they waited, staring out together through the tall,
narrow window that looked towards Rye.

Then for the third time there rose against the far-off horizon,
above that faint peak of luminosity that marked where Rye
watched over her marshes, a thin line of white fire, slackening
its pace as it rose.

Before it had burst in sparks, there roared out overhead a
deafening voice of fire and thunder, shaking the air about the