Again the low murmur of applause broke out, and three or four men shifted their positions slightly.

* * * * *

Monsignor was conscious again, suddenly and vividly, of that double sense of unreality and of intense drama which he had felt so often before at critical moments.  It seemed to him amazing, and yet more amazingly simple, that such claims should be put in such words under such circumstances.  It was astounding that such things should be said, and yet more astounding that they needed to be said, for were they not, after all, the very elements of civil and religious relations? . . .

There was something too in the voice of the invisible speaker that thrilled his very heart.  The tones were completely tranquil, there were no gestures, and the very face that spoke was unseen.  Yet in the quiet fluency, the note of absolute assurance, there was a dominating appeal that was almost hypnotic in its effect.  He had perceived this characteristic of the Cardinal often before; he had noticed it first on that occasion on which, for the first time in his knowledge, he had come into his presence, still staggered by the shock of his mental failure and recovery.  But he had never appreciated the strength of the personality so clearly.  The Cardinal was no orator in the ordinary sense; there was no thunder or pathos or drama in his manner.  But his complete assurance and the long, gentle, incisive sentences, moving like rollers in a calm sea, were more affecting than any passion could be. . . .  It seemed to him now the very incarnation of that spirit of the Church that at once attracted and repelled him—­in its serenity, its gentleness, its reasonableness, and its irresistible force.

* * * * *

Then, on a slightly higher note, and with a perceptible increase of deliberation, the voice went on.

“I must add one word, gentlemen.

“I said just now that the Church was content to be as she has recently been in this country—­content, that is, so long as she continues to enjoy the liberty with which England endows her.

“And perhaps, as her chief minister in this country, I ought to say no more.  But, gentlemen, I am an Englishman as well as a Catholic, and I love England only less than I love the Church.  I say frankly that I do love her less.  No man who has any principles that can be called religious can say otherwise.  I tell you plainly that should it come to be a choice between Caesar and God—­between the King and the Pope—­I should throw myself at once on the side of Christ and his Vicar. . . .”

(Monsignor drew a breath.  It seemed to him that this was appallingly plain speaking.  He expected a murmur of remonstrance.  He glanced at the faces, but there was no movement or change, except that a young member suddenly smiled, as with pleasure.)

“But I love England,” went on the voice, “passionately and devotedly.  And in spite of what I said just now I must add that, as an Englishman, there is but one more thing that I desire for my country, and that is that she may carry out that project on whose account you, gentlemen, have met to-day.”