It was a terse, well-written book, composed by an unknown hand, and some even suspected it to be the disguised work of Felsenburgh himself.  More, however, considered that it was written at least with Felsenburgh’s consent by one of that small body of intimates whom he had admitted to his society—­that body which under him now conducted the affairs of West and East.  From certain indications in the book it had been argued that its actual writer was a Westerner.

The main body of the work dealt with his life, or rather with those two or three years known to the world, from his rapid rise in American politics and his mediation in the East down to the event of five months ago, when in swift succession he had been hailed Messiah in Damascus, had been formally adored in London, and finally elected by an extraordinary majority to the Tribuniciate of the two Americas.

The Pope had read rapidly through these objective facts, for He knew them well enough already, and was now studying with close attention the summary of his character, or rather, as the author rather sententiously explained, the summary of his self-manifestation to the world.  He read the description of his two main characteristics, his grasp upon words and facts; “words, the daughters of earth, were wedded in this man to facts, the sons of heaven, and Superman was their offspring.”  His minor characteristics, too, were noticed, his appetite for literature, his astonishing memory, his linguistic powers.  He possessed, it appeared, both the telescopic and the microscopic eye—­he discerned world-wide tendencies and movements on the one hand; he had a passionate capacity for detail on the other.  Various anecdotes illustrated these remarks, and a number of terse aphorisms of his were recorded.  “No man forgives,” he said; “he only understands.”  “It needs supreme faith to renounce a transcendent God.”  “A man who believes in himself is almost capable of believing in his neighbour.”  Here was a sentence that to the Pope’s mind was significant of that sublime egotism that is alone capable of confronting the Christian spirit:  and again, “To forgive a wrong is to condone a crime,” and “The strong man is accessible to no one, but all are accessible to him.”

There was a certain pompousness in this array of remarks, but it lay, as the Pope saw very well, not in the speaker but in the scribe.  To him who had seen the speaker it was plain how they had been uttered—­with no pontifical solemnity, but whirled out in a fiery stream of eloquence, or spoken with that strangely moving simplicity that had constituted his first assault on London.  It was possible to hate Felsenburgh, and to fear him; but never to be amused at him.