“The supremacy of the pope (the Holy Father),” put in Trenta, meekly; he crossed himself several times in rapid succession, looking afterward as if it had been a great consolation to him.

“The supremacy of the pope,” repeated the count, firmly, the shadow of a smile parting his lips, “is eternal.  It is based as firmly in the next world as it is in this.  It constitutes a condition of complete tyranny both in time and in eternity.  Now I,” and the count’s voice rose, and his eyes glowed, “I—­both in my public and private capacity—­(call me Antichrist if you please).”  A visible shudder passed over the poor cavaliere; his eyes closed altogether, and his lips moved. (He was repeating an Ave Maria Sanctissima).  “I abhor, I renounce this slavery!—­I rebel against it!—­I will have none of it.  Who shall control the immortality of thought?—­a Pius, a Gregory?  Ignorant dreamers, perjured priests!—­never!”

As he spoke, the count raised his right arm, and circled it in the air.  In imagination he was waving the flag of liberty over a prostrate world.

“But, alas! this slavery is riveted by the grasp of centuries; it requires measures as firm and uncompromising as its own to dislodge it.  Now the pope “—­Trenta did not this time attempt to correct Marescotti—­“the pope is theoretically of no nation, but in reality he is of all nations; and he is surrounded by a court of celibate priests, also without nation.  Observe, cavaliere—­this absolute dominion is attained by celibates only—­men with no family ties—­no household influences.” (This was spoken, as it were, en parenthese, as a comment on the earlier portion of the conversation that had taken place between them.) “Each of these celibate priests is the pope’s courtier—­his courtier and his slave; his slave because he is subject to a higher law than the law of his own conscience, and the law of his own country.  Without home or family, nationality or worldly interest, the priest is a living machine, to be used in whatever direction his tyrant dictates.  Every priest, therefore, be he cardinal or deacon, moves and acts the slave of an abstract idea; an idea incompatible with patriotism, humanity, or freedom.”

An audible and deep groan escaped from the suffering cavaliere as the count’s voice ceased.

“Now, Cavaliere Trenta, mark the application.”  As the count proceeded with his argument, his dark eyes, lit up with the enthusiasm of his own oratory, riveted themselves on the arm-chair. (It could not properly be said that his eyes riveted themselves on Trenta, for he was stooping down, his face covered with his hands, altogether insensible to any possible appeal that might be addressed to him.) “I, Manfredi Marescotti, consecrated priest of the people”—­and the count drew himself up to the full height of his lofty figure—­“I am as devoted to my cause—­God is my witness”—­and he raised his right hand as though to seal a solemn pledge of truth—­“as that consecrated renegade, the pope!  My followers—­and their name is legion—­believe in me as implicitly as do the tonsured dastards of the Vatican.”