“It will be cold among the Alps,” murmured Percy.  Then he broke off.  “And I have not one shred of evidence,” he said; “nothing but the word of a man.”

“And you are sure?”

“I am sure.”

“Eminence,” said the German suddenly, staring straight into his face, “the likeness is extraordinary.”

Percy smiled listlessly.  He was tired of bearing that.

“What do you make of it?” persisted the other.

“I have been asked that before,” said Percy.  “I have no views.”

“It seems to me that God means something,” murmured the German heavily, still staring at him.

“Well, Eminence?”

“A kind of antithesis—­a reverse of the medal.  I do not know.”

Again there was silence.  A chaplain looked in through the glazed door, a homely, blue-eyed German, and was waved away once more.

“Eminence,” said the old man abruptly, “there is surely more to speak of.  Plans to be made.”

Percy shook his head.

“There are no plans to be made,” he said.  “We know nothing but the fact—­no names—­nothing.  We—­we are like children in a tiger’s cage.  And one of us has just made a gesture in the tiger’s face.”

“I suppose we shall communicate with one another?”

“If we are in existence.”

It was curious how Percy took the lead.  He had worn his scarlet for about three months, and his companion for twelve years; yet it was the younger who dictated plans and arranged.  He was scarcely conscious of its strangeness, however.  Ever since the shocking news of the morning, when a new mine had been sprung under the shaking Church, and he had watched the stately ceremonial, the gorgeous splendour, the dignified, tranquil movements of the Pope and his court, with a secret that burned his heart and brain—­above all, since that quick interview in which old plans had been reversed and a startling decision formed, and a blessing given and received, and a farewell looked not uttered—­all done in half-an-hour—­his whole nature had concentrated itself into one keen tense force, like a coiled spring.  He felt power tingling to his finger-tips—­power and the dulness of an immense despair.  Every prop had been cut, every brace severed; he, the City of Rome, the Catholic Church, the very supernatural itself, seemed to hang now on one single thing—­the Finger of God.  And if that failed—­well, nothing would ever matter any more....

He was going now to one of two things—­ignominy or death.  There was no third thing—­unless, indeed, the conspirators were actually taken with their instruments upon them.  But that was impossible.  Either they would refrain, knowing that God’s ministers would fall with them, and in that case there would be the ignominy of a detected fraud, of a miserable attempt to win credit.  Or they would not refrain; they would count the death of a Cardinal and a few bishops a cheap price to pay for revenge—­and in that case well, there was Death and Judgment.  But Percy had ceased to fear.  No ignominy could be greater than that which he already bore—­the ignominy of loneliness and discredit.  And death could be nothing but sweet—­it would at least be knowledge and rest.  He was willing to risk all on God.