“Ah, yes; yes.”

They paused for breath in an embrasure in the wall, where a section of a half-tower supported the wall, itself running down on to the cliff side.  A couple of windows gave a view of the sea, now a dark gulf under the cloudy sky, sprinkled with a few moving lights, here and there, of vessels going up or down the Channel.

“And suppose the Bill passes?” began the priest.

“If the Bill passes, we need fear nothing in England if it passes with a good majority.  You know Government is an extraordinarily delicate machine nowadays; and if the Bill goes through really well, it’ll be an infallible sign that the country refuses to take alarm.  And if it fails, or only narrowly passes—­well, it’ll be the other way.  The whole work will have to be done again, or at least begun——­”

He faced round suddenly.

“Monsignor,” he said, “I wouldn’t say this to everyone.  But I tell you we’re at a very critical moment.  These Socialists are stronger than any one dreamed.  Their organization is simply perfect.  Do you know any of them?”

“I have met Hardy.”

“That’s a brilliant man, you know.”

They talked no more during the rest of the ascent, until they emerged at last on to the top of the round keep, where the old bonfires used to burn, and where the old iron cradle, used even now at coronations and great national events, still thrust up its skeleton silhouette against the pale sky.  To the priest’s surprise the silhouette was largely filled in.

A figure came towards them, saluted, and stood waiting.

“Eh?  Who’s this?” snapped the General.

“The look out, sir.  We’ve orders to watch Rye.”

“Why?”

“The wireless is out of communication, sir.  His lordship arranged a week ago that there should be supplementary rockets.”

“Where are the guns?” asked Monsignor, who was looking about him, at the empty leads, the battlemented parapet against the sky, and then back at the servant’s figure.

“Down below, father.  They’re to be fired from here if three white rockets go up.”

While the two others still talked, the priest went to the side and looked over, again suddenly overwhelmed by the strangeness of the whole position.  Once again there came on him the sense of irresponsible unreality. . . .  He stared out, hardly seeing that on which he looked:  the grey mass of the lower castle beneath with lighted windows, at the blankness beyond, again with the scattered lights—­the nearer ones, within what seemed a stone’s throw, along the village street—­the farther ones, infinitely remote, out upon the invisible sea.  There again too, far off across the land, shone another cluster of lights, seen rather as a luminous patch, that marked Rye.  There too, eyes were watching; there too it was felt that interests were at stake, so vast and so unknown, that heaven or hell might be within their limits.  He looked inland, and there too was darkness, but darkness unrelieved.  Near at hand, immediately below the bounding walls, rose up the dark swelling outlines that he knew to be the woods of the park, crowding up against the very castle walls themselves; and beyond, dimness after dimness, to meet the sky. . . .