* * * * *

But he was still again this morning, and celebrated Saint Silvester, Pope and Martyr, the last saint in the procession of the Christian year, with tolerable equanimity.  The sights of last night, the throng of officials, the stately, scarlet, unfamiliar figures of the Cardinals who had come in from north, south, east and west—­these helped to reassure him again—­unreasonably, as he knew, yet effectually.  The very air was electric with expectation.  All night the piazza had been crowded by a huge, silent mob waiting till the opening of the doors at seven o’clock.  Now the church itself was full, and the piazza full again.  Far down the street to the river, so far as he could see as he had leaned from his window just now, lay that solemn motionless pavement of heads.  The roof of the colonnade showed a fringe of them, the house-tops were black—­and this in the bitter cold of a clear, frosty morning, for it was announced that after mass and the proceeding of the members of the Order past the Pontifical Throne, the Pope would give Apostolic Benediction to the City and the World.

Percy finished Terce, closed his book and lay back; his servant would be here in a minute now.

His mind began to run over the function, and he reflected that the entire Sacred College (with the exception of the Cardinal-Protector of Jerusalem, detained by sickness), numbering sixty-four members, would take part.  This would mean an unique sight by and bye.  Eight years before, he remembered, after the freedom of Rome, there had been a similar assembly; but the Cardinals at that time amounted to no more than fifty-three all told, and four had been absent.

Then he heard voices in his ante-room, a quick step, and a loud English expostulation.  That was curious, and he sat up.

Then he heard a sentence.

“His Eminence must go to vest; it is useless.”

There was a sharp answer, a faint scuffle, and a snatch at the handle.  This was indecent; so Percy stood up, made three strides of it to the door, and tore it open.

A man stood there, whom at first he did not recognise, pale and disordered.

“Why—–­” began Percy, and recoiled.

“Mr. Phillips!” he said.

The other threw out his hands.

“It is I, sir—­your Eminence—­this moment arrived.  It is life and death.  Your servant tells me—–­”

“Who sent you?”

“Father Blackmore.”

“Good news or bad?”

The man rolled his eyes towards the servant, who still stood erect and offended a yard away; and Percy understood.

He put his hand on the other’s arm, drawing him through the doorway.

“Tap upon this door in two minutes, James,” he said.

They passed across the polished floor together; Percy went to his usual place in the window, leaned against the shutter, and spoke.

“Tell me in one sentence, sir,” he said to the breathless man.