And then the rest of the world—­the madness that had seized upon the nations; the amazing stories that had poured in that day of the men in Paris, who, raving like Bacchantes, had stripped themselves naked in the Place de Concorde, and stabbed themselves to the heart, crying out to thunders of applause that life was too enthralling to be endured; of the woman who sang herself mad last night in Spain, and fell laughing and foaming in the concert hall at Seville; of the crucifixion of the Catholics that morning in the Pyrenees, and the apostasy of three bishops in Germany....  And this ... and this ... and a thousand more horrors were permitted, and God made no sign and spoke no word....

There was a tap, and Percy sprang up as the Cardinal came in.

He looked horribly worn; and his eyes had a kind of sunken brilliance that revealed fever.  He made a little motion to Percy to sit down, and himself sat in the deep chair, trembling a little, and gathering his buckled feet beneath his red-buttoned cassock.

“You must forgive me, father,” he said.  “I am anxious for the Bishop’s safety.  He should be here by now.”

This was the Bishop of Southwark, Percy remembered, who had left England early that morning.

“He is coming straight through, your Eminence?”

“Yes; he should have been here by twenty-three.  It is after midnight, is it not?”

As he spoke, the bells chimed out the half-hour.

It was nearly quiet now.  All day the air had been full of sound; mobs had paraded the suburbs; the gates of the City had been barred, yet that was only an earnest of what was to be expected when the world understood itself.

The Cardinal seemed to recover himself after a few minutes’ silence.

“You look tired out, father,” he said kindly.

Percy smiled.

“And your Eminence?” he said.

The old man smiled too.

“Why, yes,” he said.  “I shall not last much longer, father.  And then it will be you to suffer.”

Percy sat up, suddenly, sick at heart.

“Why, yes,” said the Cardinal.  “The Holy Father has arranged it.  You are to succeed me, you know.  It need be no secret.”

Percy drew a long trembling breath.

“Eminence,” he began piteously.

The other lifted a thin old hand.

“I understand all that,” he said softly.  “You wish to die, is it not so?—­and be at peace.  There are many who wish that.  But we must suffer first. Et pati et mori.  Father Franklin, there must be no faltering.”

There was a long silence.

The news was too stunning to convey anything to the priest but a sense of horrible shock.  The thought had simply never entered his mind that he, a man under forty, should be considered eligible to succeed this wise, patient old prelate.  As for the honour—­Percy was past that now, even had he thought of it.  There was but one view before him—­of a long and intolerable journey, on a road that went uphill, to be traversed with a burden on his shoulders that he could not support.