And now it was the bishop whose dark hands ran over the great silver globe, and it was the Angel who stood over him and listened, as a teacher might stand over a child who is learning a lesson.  The bishop’s hand rested for a second on a cardinal who was planning a political intrigue to produce a reaction in France, then for a moment on a Pomeranian pastor who was going out to his well-tilled fields with his Sunday sermon, full of fierce hatred of England, still echoing in his head.  Then he paused at a Mollah preaching the Jehad, in doubt whether he too wasn’t a German pastor, and then at an Anglican clergyman still lying abed and thinking out a great mission of Repentance and Hope that should restore the authority of the established church—­by incoherent missioning—­without any definite sin indicated for repentance nor any clear hope for anything in particular arising out of such activities.  The bishop’s hand went seeking to and fro, but nowhere could he find any religious teacher, any religious body rousing itself to meet the new dawn of faith in the world.  Some few men indeed seemed thoughtful, but within the limitation of their vows.  Everywhere it was church and creed and nation and king and property and partisanship, and nowhere was it the True God that the priests and teachers were upholding.  It was always the common unhampered man through whom the light of God was breaking; it was always the creed and the organization of the religious professionals that stood in the way to God....

“God is putting the priests aside,” he cried, “and reaching out to common men.  The churches do not serve God.  They stand between man and God.  They are like great barricades on the way to God.”

The bishop’s hand brushed over Archbishop Pontifex, who was just coming down to breakfast in his palace.  This pompous old man was dressed in a purple garment that set off his tall figure very finely, and he was holding out his episcopal ring for his guests to kiss, that being the customary morning greeting of Archbishop Pontifex.  The thought of that ring-kissing had made much hard work at lower levels “worth while” to Archbishop Pontifex.  And seventy miles away from him old Likeman breakfasted in bed on Benger’s food, and searched his Greek Testament for tags to put to his letters.  And here was the familiar palace at Princhester, and in an armchair in his bed-room sat Bishop Scrope insensible and motionless, in a trance in which he was dreaming of the coming of God.

“I see my futility.  I see my vanity.  But what am I to do?” he said, turning to the darkness that now wrapped about the Angel again, fold upon fold.  “The implications of yesterday bind me for the morrow.  This is my world.  This is what I am and what I am in.  How can I save myself?  How can I turn from these habits and customs and obligations to the service of the one true God?  When I see myself, then I understand how it is with the others.  All we priests and teachers are men caught in nets.  I would serve God.  Easily said!  But how am I to serve God?  How am I to help and forward His coming, to make myself part of His coming?”