So Percy mused, standing apart in his gorgeousness, striving to make himself little and simple.  Surely nothing was too hard for God!  Might not this mystic Birth once more do what it had done before—­bring into subjection through the might of its weakness every proud thing that exalts itself above all that is called God?  It had drawn wise Kings once across the desert, as well as shepherds from their flocks.  It had kings about it now, kneeling with the poor and foolish, kings who had laid down their crowns, who brought the gold of loyal hearts, the myrrh of desired martyrdom, and the incense of a pure faith.  Could not republics, too, lay aside their splendour, mobs be tamed, selfishness deny itself, and wisdom confess its ignorance?...

Then he remembered Felsenburgh; and his heart sickened within him.

III

Six days later, Percy rose as usual, said his mass, breakfasted, and sat down to say office until his servant should summon him to vest for the Pontifical mass.

He had learned to expect bad news now so constantly—­of apostasies, deaths, losses—­that the lull of the previous week had come to him with extraordinary refreshment.  It appeared to him as if his musings in St. Anastasia had been truer than he thought, and that the sweetness of the old feast had not yet wholly lost its power even over a world that denied its substance.  For nothing at all had happened of importance.  A few more martyrdoms had been chronicled, but they had been isolated cases; and of Felsenburgh there had been no tidings at all.  Europe confessed its ignorance of his business.

On the other hand, to-morrow, Percy knew very well, would be a day of extraordinary moment in England and Germany at any rate; for in England it was appointed as the first occasion of compulsory worship throughout the country, while it was the second in Germany.  Men and women would have to declare themselves now.

He had seen on the previous evening a photograph of the image that was to be worshipped next day in the Abbey; and, in a fit of loathing, had torn it to shreds.  It represented a nude woman, huge and majestic, entrancingly lovely, with head and shoulders thrown back, as one who sees a strange and heavenly vision, arms downstretched and hands a little raised, with wide fingers, as in astonishment—­the whole attitude, with feet and knees pressed together, suggestive of expectation, hope and wonder; in devilish mockery her long hair was crowned with twelve stars.  This, then, was the spouse of the other, the embodiment of man’s ideal maternity, still waiting for her child....

When the white scraps lay like poisonous snow at his feet, he had sprung across the room to his prie-dieu, and fallen there in an agony of reparation.

“Oh!  Mother, Mother!” he cried to the stately Queen of Heaven who, with Her true Son long ago in Her arms, looked down on him from Her bracket—­no more than that.