“Possibly I may do so,” he responded peaceably.  “We are all subject to error.  My calling, as I take it, is that of a servant of Christ, whose instructions for work are plainly set down in His own words.  It is for me to follow these instructions as literally and exactly as I can.  With regard to my position, I am placed as the spiritual head of a very small diocese, where the people for the most part lead very innocent and harmless lives.  But I should be selfish and narrow in spirit if I allowed myself to limit my views to my own circle of influence.  My flock are mere rustics in intellectual capacity, and have no conception of the manner in which the larger tide of human events is flowing.  Now and then one or two of the people grow weary of their quiet pastures and woodlands,—­and being young, hopeful, and ardent, start forth into the great world, there to seek fairer fortunes.  Sometimes they come back to their old homes.  Far more frequently they never return.  But those who do come back are changed utterly.  I recognise no more the young men and maidens whom I confirmed in their faith, and laid my hands on in blessing ere they fared forth to other lives and scenes.  The men are grown callous and worldly; without a heart,—­without a thought,—­ save for the gain or loss of gold.  The women are—­ruined!”

He paused a moment.  The Archbishop said nothing.

“I love my people,” went on the Cardinal pathetically—­“No child is baptised in our old Cathedral without my praying for its future good,—­without my hope that it may grow into that exquisite mingling of the Divine and Human which our Lord taught us was the perfection of life, and His desire to see fulfilled in those He called His own.  Yes,—­I love my people!—­and when any of them go away from me, and then return to the scenes of their childhood broken-hearted, I cannot meet them with reproach.  My own heart is half broken to see them thus cast down.  And their sorrows have compelled me naturally to meditate on the sorrows of others,—­to consider what it is in the world which thus corrodes the pure gold of innocence and robs life of its greatest charm.  For if Christ’s spirit ruled us all, then innocence should be held more sacred.  Life should engender happiness.  I have studied, read, and thought long, upon these matters, so that I not only feel, but know the truth of what I say.  Brother!—­” and the Cardinal, strongly moved, rose suddenly and confronted the Archbishop with a passionate gesture—­“My great grief is that the spirit of Christ does not rule the world!  Christ is being re-crucified by this generation!  And the Church is looking on, and silently permitting His second murder!”

Startled by the force of this expression, the Archbishop sprang up in his turn, his lips parted as if to speak—­then—­his angry glance met the clear, calm, steadfast look of Felix Bonpre, and he faltered.  His eyes drooped—­and his massive figure seemed for a moment to shrink with a sort of abasement.  Like an inspired apostle the Cardinal stood, one hand outstretched,—­his whole frame sentient with the strong emotion which possessed him.