He leaned forward to listen, as the friar with a wide gesture swept his hand round the horizon.  “Brethren,” he cried, “Look round you!  Fifty years ago this was a Protestant country, and the Church of God a sect among the sects.  And to-day—­to-day God is vindicated and the truth is known.  Fifty years ago we were but a handful among the thousands that knew not God, and to-day we rule the world.  ‘Son of man, can these dry bones live?’ So cried the voice of God to the prophet.  And behold! they stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army.  If then He has done such things for us, what shall He not do for those for whom I speak?  Yet He works through man.  ‘How shall they hear without a preacher?’ Do you see to it then that there are not wanting labourers in that vineyard of which you have heard.  Already the grapes hang ready to pluck, and it is but we that are wanting. . . .  Send forth then labourers into My vineyard, cries the Lord of all.”

The words were ill-chosen and commonplace enough, and uttered in an accent indefinably strange to the bewildered listener, but the force of the man was tremendous, as he sent out his personality over the enormous crowd, on that high vibrant voice that controlled, it seemed, even those on the outskirts far up the roads on either side.  Then with a swift sign of the cross, answered generally by those about the pulpit, he ended his sermon and disappeared down the steps, and a great murmur of talk began.

But what in the world was it all about, wondered the man under the canopy.  What was this vineyard? and why did he appeal to English people in such words as these?  Every one knew that the Catholic Church was but a handful still in this country.  Certainly, progress had been made, but. . . .

He broke off his meditations as he saw the group of ecclesiastics coming towards him, and noticed that on all sides the crowd was beginning to disperse.  He gripped the arms of the chair fiercely, trying to gain self-command.  He must not make a fool of himself before all these people; he must be discreet and say as little as possible.

But there was no great need for caution at present.  The old priest who had spoken to him before stepped a little in advance of the rest, and turning, said in a low sentence or two to the Benedictines; and the group stopped, though one or two still eyed, it seemed, with sympathy, the man who awaited him.  Then the priest came up alone and put his hand on the arm of the chair.

“Come out this way,” he whispered.  “There’s a path behind, Monsignor, and I’ve sent orders for the car to be there.”

The man rose obediently (he could do nothing else), passed down the steps and behind the canopy.  A couple of police stood there in an unfamiliar, but unmistakable uniform, and these drew themselves up and saluted.  They went on down the little pathway and out through a side-gate.  Here again the crowd was tremendous, but barriers kept them away, and the two passed on together across the pavement, saluted by half a dozen men who were pressed against the barriers—­(it was here, for the first time, that the bewildered man noticed that the dresses seemed altogether unfamiliar)—­and up to a car of a peculiar and unknown shape, that waited in the roadway, with a bare-headed servant, in some strange purple livery, holding the door open.