A murmur from the bishop prompted him, "The response is _Volo_--or _Nolo_." The surging in his temples, the booming in his ears, miraculously ceased. He took one long slow breath: crossed right hand over left upon his breast: became like a piece of a pageant; and responded "I will." Two hands clapped, and the canopies came down rustling and flapping. The Sacred College struggled to its feet, as God's Vicegerent passed to the rear of the high altar. They offered Him three suits of pontifical white, large, medium, and small. The large was too large: the small, too small: but the medium would serve for the present. He began to undress, among the throng of assistants, with the noncurance of one accustomed to swim in Sandford Lasher. He forbade all help, refusing to be touched. When He had assumed the white hosen, cassock, sash, rochet, cape, and cap, the crimson shoes and stole, the great new gold Ring of The Fisherman, He went through His former pockets leaving nothing behind: tucked His handkerchief into His left sleeve; and asked for the Bishop of Caerleon. While masters-of-ceremonies and the Augustinian sacristan hurried to prepare altars for the episcopal consecration of the Pope, Dr. Talacryn was admitted to the Apostolic presence. He made obeisance: the moment was too enormous for words, but eyes spoke. "A glass of water," then the Pontiff said. "The fast, Holy Father----" "Will not be broken. Remain always close at hand, please." He felt as though the whole world suddenly had left Him. Not that He Himself had moved, or changed: but the world, the past, was entirely gone and blotted out: the future was obscure: the present was all strange. His unrelated idea was to steady Himself by this one link with the past. Water was brought. He dipped half His handkerchief: wrang it out: pressed it on His hot dry eyes. All through the long ceremony of consecration, He carried Himself with enigmatical equanimity. Though His eyes saw nothing but the matters of each moment, and though His bearing seemed to indicate an aloof indifference, yet, within, His sensibilities were at their tensest. Nothing escaped Him. And He was mobilizing His forces: planning His campaign. He was looking-down, He was surveying, the opening vista. Two or three moves on the apostolic chess-board He already could foresee. At the conferring of the episcopal ring, He drew-back His hand; and demanded an amethyst instead of the proffered emerald. The ceremony halted till the canonical stone came. Cardinals noted the first manifestation of pontifical will, with much concern, and with some annoyance. Ragna muttered of ignoble upstarts: Vivole, of boyish arrogance: Berstein, of beggars on horseback. "He, who is born of a hen, always scratches the ground," asserted the Benedictine Cacciatore: and "He, who was a frog, is now a king," Labeur quoted from the _Satyricon_ of Petronius Arbiter.