ake room for a thousand and one Popelings, each
in his separate parish practising what seems right in his own eyes.
At any rate, let us say, remembering the parable of the room swept
and garnished, it intended no such result. Let us agree, Mr.
Chaplain, to economise in Popes, and to condemn that business of
Avignon. So the ignorant herd comes back on you with two questions,
which in effect are one: 'If not mere anarchists, what authority own
you? And if not for Rome, for what in the world _are_ you heading?'
You ask Rome to recognise your Orders.--_Mais, soyez consequent,
monsieur_."

It was Mr. Colt's turn to pull out his watch.

"Permit me to remind you," he said, "that you, at any rate, have to
own an authority, and that the Master will be expecting you at
six-thirty sharp. For the rest, sir, you cannot think that
thoughtful Churchmen have no answer to these questions, if put by
anyone with the right to put them. But _you_--not even a
communicant! Will you dare to use these arguments to the Master, for
instance?"

"He had the last word there," said Brother Copas, pocketing his
snuff-box and gazing after the Chaplain's athletic figure as it swung
away up the tow-path. "He gave me no time to answer that one suits
an argument to the adversary. The Master? Could I present anything
so crude to one who, though lazy, is yet a scholar?--who has
certainly fought this thing through, after his lights, and would get
me entangled in the Councils of Carthage and Constance, St. Cyprian
and the rest? . . . Colt quotes the ignorant herd to me, and I put
him the ignorant herd's question--without getting a reply."

"You did not allow him much time for one," said Brother Bonaday
mildly.

Brother Copas stared at him, drew out his watch again, and chuckled.

"You're right. I lose count of time, defending my friends; and this
is your battle I'm fighting, remember."

He offered his arm, and the two friends started to walk back towards
St. Hospital. They had gone but a dozen yards when a childish voice
hailed them, and Corona came skipping along the bank.

"Daddy! you are to come home at once! It's past six o'clock, and
Branny says the river fog's bad for you."

"Home?" echoed Brother Bonaday inattentively. The word had been
unfamiliar to him for some years, and his old brain did not grasp it
for a moment. His eyes seemed to question the child as she stood
before him panting, her hair dishevelled.

"Aye, Brother,