“You are too kind,” said Paolo simply.

He was very grateful for the kindly words, for he knew that they were meant and not said merely in jest.  The idea that he had perhaps injured Marzio in the Cardinal’s estimation was very painful to him, in spite of what he had felt that morning.  Moreover, the prelate’s plain, common-sense view of the case reassured him, and removed a doubt that had long ago disturbed his peace of mind.  On reflection it seemed true enough, and altogether reasonable, but Paolo knew in his heart what a sensation of repulsion, not to say loathing, he would experience if he should ever be called upon to use in the sacred services a vessel of his brother’s making.  The thought that those long, cruel fingers of Marzio’s had hammered and worked out the delicate design would pursue him and disturb his thoughts.  The sound of Marzio’s voice, mocking at all the priest held holy, would be in his ears and would mingle with the very words of the canon.

But then, provided that he himself were not obliged to use his brother’s chalices, what could it matter?  The Cardinal did not know the artist, and whatever picture he might make to himself of the man would be shadowy and indistinct.  The feeling, then, was his own and quite personal.  It would be the height of superstitious folly to suppose that any evil principle could be attached to the silver and gold because they were chiselled by impious hands.  A simple matter this, but one which had many a time distressed Don Paolo.

There was a long pause after the priest’s last words, during which the prelate looked at him from time to time, examined his own white hands, and turned his great ruby ring round his finger.

“Let us go to work,” he said at length, as though dismissing the subject of the conversation from his mind.

Paolo fetched a large portfolio of papers and established himself at the writing-table, while the Cardinal examined the documents one by one, and dictated what he had to say about them to his secretary.  During two hours or more the two men remained steadily at their task.  When the last paper was read and the last note upon it written out, the Cardinal rose from his arm-chair and went to the window.  There was no sound in the room but that of the sand rattling upon the stiff surface, as Paolo poured it over the wet ink in the old-fashioned way, shook it about and returned it to the little sandbox by the inkstand.  Suddenly the old churchman turned round and faced the priest.

“One of these days, when you and I are asleep out there at San Lorenzo, there will be a fight, my friend,” he said.

“About what, Eminence?” asked the other.

“About silver chalices, perhaps.  About many things.  It will be a great fight, such as the world has never seen before.”

“I do not understand,” said Don Paolo.