“All is well with me!” he said, pressing the hand of Manuel in his own, and releasing it again, “Do not fret, Angela,—­it was the merest passing faintness.  Forgive me, brother, for alarming you thus foolishly!  As for the letter from the Vatican concerning this miracle, I must needs present myself before His Holiness and assure him that I know nothing of it,—­that I did no more than pray—­that I left the crippled child still crippled—­and that if indeed it be true he is healed, it is by the merciful act of God and—­the intervention of our Lord and Saviour Christ, to Whom be all the praise and glory!”

He rose up again from his chair and stood full height,—­a grand and beautiful figure of noble old age, transfigured by the light of some never-aging thought, some glorious inspiration.  And Angela, who had been startled and alarmed by his sudden fainting fit, was even more overcome by the sight of him thus radiant and selfpossessed, and dropping on her knees she caught his hand and kissed it, her tears falling fast.  He stooped and raised her.

“Child, why are you weeping?” he said tenderly, “Nay, I am not so ill as you think me!  I am well—­strong!—­ready for the doing of many things in my Master’s service!  Pietro, take this dear girl and comfort her!” and he put her gently into her father’s arms,—­“For myself, I have work to do—­work to do!—­” he repeated musingly,—­“I see trouble ahead!—­but I shall face it—­and if God please—­overcome it!” His, eyes flashed, and after a moment he resumed, “I will write to Gherardi now—­and to-morrow—­to-morrow I will speak!”

“Can I help you, brother?” asked the Prince, taken out of himself by the air of splendour and sovereignty which seemed to surround the Cardinal as with a divine halo, “You are fatigued with your journey,—­let me write for you!”

“No, Pietro!  I must do this myself, and think well of all I should say.”  He paused, then added, “They tell me Claude Cazeau, secretary to the Archbishop of Rouen brought the news of this so-called miracle to Rome.  I should have liked to have seen that man to-night.”

“You will see him at the Vatican,” said Sovrani. with a touch of irony, “That will be time enough!  Oh, innocent Felix!  Do you not see you will be confronted with Cazeau?  And that Gherardi and his set will be there to note your every look and gesture, and privately judge as to whether you and the Archbishop of Rouen concocted the miracle between you!  And that if you were to see this Cazeau to-night, that very meeting would be taken as a sign of conspiracy!”

Over the pale features of the Cardinal rushed a warm glow of indignation, but it died away as rapidly as it had come.

“True!” he said simply, “I forgot!  If a good deed is done in the world by the force of the undefined Spirit of Christ, it is judged as trickery,—­and we must never forget that even the Resurrection of our Blessed Lord from the dead is believed by some to be a mere matter of conspiracy among His disciples.  True—­I forgot the blindness,—­the melancholy blindness of the world!  But we must always say, ‘Father forgive them, for they know not what they do!’ I will write to Gherardi,—­and,—­if you will permit me, I will remain in my own rooms tonight for I must think and pray,—­I must be alone . . .”