this problem and solved it.  He had perceived the trickery, the dissimulation and hypocrisy of Roman priestcraft.  He had seen the Pope officiate at High Mass in the Sistine Chapel, having procured the “introduction from very high quarters” which, even according to ordinary guide-books, is absolutely necessary,—­the “high quarters” in this instance being Monsignor Gherardi.  Apart from this absurdity,—­this impious idea of needing an “introduction” to a sacred service professedly held for the worship of the Divine, by the Representative of Christ on earth, he had watched with sickening soul all the tawdry ceremonial so far removed from the simplicity of Christ’s commands,—­he had stared dully, till his brows ached, at the poor, feeble, scraggy old man with the pale, withered face and dark eyes, who was chosen to represent a “Manifestation of the Deity” to his idolatrous followers;—­and as he thought of all the poverty, sorrow, pain, perplexity, and bewilderment of the “lost sheep” who were wandering to and fro in the world, scarcely able to fight the difficulties of their daily lot, and unable to believe in God because they were never allowed to understand or to experience any of His goodness, such a passion of protest arose in him, that he could have sprung on the very steps of the altar and cried aloud to the aged Manager of the Stage-scene there, “Away with this sham of Christianity!  Give us the true message of Christ, undefiled!  Sell these useless broidered silks,—­these flaunting banners;—­take the silver, gold, and bank-notes which hysterical pilgrims cast at your feet!—­this Peter’s Pence, amounting to millions, whose exact total you alone know,—­and come out into the highways and byways of the cities of all lands,—­ call to you the lame, the halt, the blind, the sickly, and diseased,—­give comfort where comfort is needed,—­defend the innocent—­protect the just, and silence the Voce de la Verita which published under your authority, callously advocates murder!”

And though he felt all this, he could only remain a dumb spectator of the Show in which not the faintest shadow of Christianity according to Christ, appeared—­and when the theatrical pageant was over, he hurried out into the fresh air half stupefied with the heavy sense of shame that such things could be, and no man found true enough to the commands of the Divine Master to shake the world with strong condemnation.

“Twelve fishermen were enough to preach the Gospel,” he thought, “Yet now there cannot be found twelve faithful souls who will protest against its falsification!”

And on St. Cecilia’s morning he was in sad and sober mood,—­too vexed with himself to contemplate his future work without a sense of pain and disappointment and loneliness.  He loved Sylvie Hermenstein, and admitted his passion for her frankly to his own soul, but at the same time felt that a union with her would be impossible.  He had seen her nearly every day since their first introduction to each other,