comfort for the human race!  The very tragedy of the Cross only brings me to one result—­that Truth is always crucified.  The world prefers Falsehood.  So much so indeed that the Christian religion itself is little more than a super-structure of lies raised above the sepulchre of a murdered Truth.  I told you in my letter I had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric.  So I have.  My spirit turns to Rome!”

“Rome!” cried Walden—­“What, you, Brent!—­you think of going over to Rome?  What strange fantasy has seized you?”

“Rome,” said Brent, slowly, stopping in his restless walk—­“is the Mother of Creeds—­the antique Muse of the world’s history!  Filled with the blood of martyrs, hallowed by the memories of saints, she is, she must always be, supreme in matters of faith—­or superstition!” And he smiled,—­a wan and sorrowful smile—­“Or even idolatry, if you will!  Emotionalism,—­sensationalism in religion—­ these the craving soul must have, and these Rome gives!  We must believe,—­mark you, Walden!—­we must positively believe that the Creator of all Universes was moved to such wrath against the helpless human creature He had made, that he cursed that creature forever for merely eating, like a child, fruit which had been forbidden!  And after that we must believe everything else that has since followed in the track of the Woman, the Serpent and the Tree.  Now in the Church of England I find I cannot believe these things—­ in the Church of Rome I will believe, because I must!  I will humble myself in dust and ashes, and accept all—­all.  Anything is better than Nothingness!  I will be the lowest of lay brethren, and in solitude and silence, make atonement for my unbelief.  It is the only way, Walden!—­for me, it is the only way!  To Her!” And he pointed up to the picture of the Virgin and Child—­“To Her, my vows!  As Woman, she will pity me—­as Woman, she can be loved!”

Walden heard this wild speech without any word or gesture of interruption.  Then, raising his eyes to the picture Brent thus apostrophised, he said, quietly—­

“When did you have that painted, Brent?”

A sudden change came over the Bishop’s features.  He looked as though startled by some vague terror.  Then he answered, slowly: 

“Some years ago—­in Florence.  Why do you ask?  It is a copy—–­”

“Of her likeness—­yes!” said Walden, softly—­“I saw that at once.  You had it done, of course!  She was beautiful and good—­she died young.  I know!  But you have no right to turn your personal passion and grief into a form of worship, Harry!”

The Bishop gazed at him fixedly and solemnly.

“You do not know,”—­he murmured—­“You have not seen what I have seen!  She has come to me lately—­she, who died so long ago!—­she has come to me night after night, and she has told me to pray for her—­ ‘pray’ she says—­’pray that I may help to save your soul!’ And I must surely do as she bids.  I must get away from this place—­away from this city of turmoil and wickedness, into some quieter comer of the world,—­some monastic retreat where I may end my days in peace,- -I cannot fight my devils here—­they are too strong for me!”