The father looked at us.

"You are going on directly?" he said, in a subdued manner.

"Immediately," we said, "when we have tired out your excellent
hospitality."

"Then I shall tell you. The manner of it is this. My friend
Gentinetta;--he is my friend, and an excellent one in this world, though
it is likely that our paths may not lie together in the next, if all be
true that the Pope preaches. We two have a convention, which is private
and not to be named. It is permitted to circumvent the wicked, and to
drive the reluctant sheep by innocent craft.

"Now, Pastor Gentinetta has the advantage of me during the life of his
people. It is indeed a curious thing that these heretics are eager to
partake of the untransformed and unblessed sacraments, which are no
sacraments. It is the strangest thing! I who preach the truth cannot
drive my people with whips of scorpions to the blessed sacraments of
Holy Church. They will not go for whip or cord. But these heretics will
mourn for days if they be not admitted to their table of communion. It
is one of the mysterious things of God. But, after all, it is a lucky
thing," soliloquised Father Philip; "for what does my friend do when
they come to him for their cards of communion, but turns up his book of
stipend and statute dues. Says he--'My friend, such and such dues are
wanting. A good Christian cannot sit down at the sacrament without
clearing himself with God, and especially with His messenger.' So there
he has them, and they pay up, and often make him a present besides. For
such threats my rascals would not care one black and rotten fig."