The door of the Xystine Chapel was open. Conclavists from all quarters hurried towards it. George and his friend found themselves impelled through the portals. Beyond the delicate marble screen, gleamed the six steady flamelets of the candles on the altar. The protentous figures in the Doom appeared to writhe. Inside the screen Macca and Berstein went; and paused; and faced the crowd which followed them. George was looking about him, vehemently alert. He had felt like this three times in his life before, at the exsequies of the Queen of England, at the incoronation of the King of England, at the foot of the first grave which had opened in his path through life. It was the feeling of the cognoscente who is permitted, during sixty seconds, to do his own pleasure in a treasure-chest filled to the brim with inestimable intagliate gems. It was the feeling of absolute acquisitiveness. Here was history in the making; and he was in the front rank of the spectators. There was no time to think of effects. This was a case of causes; and every detail must be seized and stored. Selection could come later: appreciation afterwards: but now he must collect. First, his glance flashed upward to the little square canopies: they all were in position. Then, to the occupants of the five and fifty thrones: they were sitting as still as the conscript-fathers sat in their curule chairs, turned-to and watching the crowd which oozed through the screen-gates. Unconsciously, George was urged further and further in. His demeanour was abstrusely unemotional: he continued violently absorbent of the spectacle. Presently, he whispered to the bishop, "What is it? What is happening?" "I think God has given us a Pope." "Oh! Whom?" "Wait. We shall know in a minute." The silence, the stillness, the dim light, where motionless forms of cardinals curved like the frozen crests of waves carven in white jade and old ivory on a sea of amethyst, were more than marvellous. A voice came out of the gloom, an intense voice, reciting some formula. George did not take the Latin easily from an Italian tongue: he found himself translating, _Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontificality?_ "Reverend?" he thought. Why not "Most Eminent"? He instantly turned to the bishop, with another question on his tongue. The bishop was kneeling behind him. The crowd also was kneeling. Why in the world did not he kneel too? Why should he hesitate for a moment? He faced round once more, a single black figure with an alert weary white face, alone and erect in the splendour of violet. He glanced again at the canopies. It was on him, on him, that all eyes were. Why did he not kneel? Again the voice of the Cardinal-Archdeacon intoned, "Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontificality?" There was no mistake. The awful tremendous question was addressed to him.