to the point of morbidness. Well, the heart of the Church is very
deep, and you have not found it yet. That does not greatly
matter. You must keep your _will_ fixed. That is all that God
asks. . . . I think it is true that the Church is hard, in a
certain sense; or shall we call it a Divine strength? It is
largely a matter of words. She has had that strength always. Once
it nerved her to suffer; now it nerves her to rule. But I think
you would find that she could suffer again."

"Your Eminence!" cried the priest lamentably, "I am beginning to
see that. . . . Yourself. . . . Prince Otteone. . . ."

The Cardinal lifted his hand.

"Of myself we need not speak. I am an old man, and I do not expect
to suffer. Prince Otteone was another matter. He was a young man,
full of life; and he knew to what he was going. Well, does not his
case impress you? He went quite cheerfully, you know."

The priest was silent.

"What are you thinking of, my son?"

The priest shivered a little.

"Tell me," said the Cardinal again.

"It is the Holy Father," burst out the other impulsively.
"He was terrible: so unconcerned, so careless as to who
lived or died. . . ."