Yet he recognised its inevitability.  The fact was announced to him as indisputable; it was to be; there was nothing to be said.  But it was as if one more gulf had opened, and he stared into it with a dull, sick horror, incapable of expression.

The Cardinal first broke the silence.

“Father Franklin,” he said, “I have seen to-day a picture of Felsenburgh.  Do you know whom I at first took it for?”

Percy smiled listlessly.

“Yes, father, I took it for you.  Now, what do you make of that?”

“I don’t understand, Eminence.”

“Why—–­” He broke off, suddenly changing the subject.

“There was a murder in the City to-day,” he said.  “A Catholic stabbed a blasphemer.”

Percy glanced at him again.

“Oh! yes; he has not attempted to escape,” went on the old man.  “He is in gaol.”

“And—–­”

“He will be executed.  The trial will begin to-morrow....  It is sad enough.  It is the first murder for eight months.”

The irony of the position was evident enough to Percy as he sat listening to the deepening silence outside in the starlit night.  Here was this poor city pretending that nothing was the matter, quietly administering its derided justice; and there, outside, were the forces gathering that would put an end to all.  His enthusiasm seemed dead.  There was no thrill from the thought of the splendid disregard of material facts of which this was one tiny instance, none of despairing courage or drunken recklessness.  He felt like one who watches a fly washing his face on the cylinder of an engine—­the huge steel slides along bearing the tiny life towards enormous death—­another moment and it will be over; and yet the watcher cannot interfere.  The supernatural thus lay, perfect and alive, but immeasurably tiny; the huge forces were in motion, the world was heaving up, and Percy could do nothing but stare and frown.  Yet, as has been said, there was no shadow on his faith; the fly he knew was greater than the engine from the superiority of its order of life; if it were crushed, life would not be the final sufferer; so much he knew, but how it was so, he did not know.

As the two sat there, again came a step and a tap; and a servant’s face looked in.

“His Lordship is come, Eminence,” he said.

The Cardinal rose painfully, supporting himself by the table.  Then he paused, seeming to remember something, and fumbled in his pocket.

“See that, father,” he said, and pushed a small silver disc towards the priest.  “No; when I am gone.”

Percy closed the door and came back, taking up the little round object.

It was a coin, fresh from the mint.  On one side was the familiar wreath with the word “fivepence” in the midst, with its Esperanto equivalent beneath, and on the other the profile of a man, with an inscription.  Percy turned it to read: 

“JULIAN FELSENBURGH, LA PREZIDANTE DE UROPO.”