"She is a daughter of the Church; and she knows what the Church's answer has always been." "She knows, then," said Max, "what no school of historians has yet been able to decide! See over in England to-day how the Church, clinging to its establishment, has to dodge and shuffle over the changes in the moral law arising out of national habit. Is the Church of Jingalo so greatly superior, think you, that it can boast?" At that moment a clock upon the chimney-piece intoned the hour; and the Archbishop, reduced to extremity in order to get rid of his distinguished but unwelcome visitor, permitted himself to throw an involuntary glance in the direction of the sound. The Prince, perceiving the indication, rose at once to his feet. "Pardon me," he said, "for having kept you so long." "Pardon _me_," returned his Grace; "unfortunately I have to dine." "Of course. I ought not to have forgotten." "I mean that I have guests." "They shall not be kept waiting by me," said the Prince. He moved to the door. Then he stopped. "Your Grace," he said, "I know that we cannot be friends, still----" He paused; and there was silence. "I greatly wish to see your daughter. Surely you cannot deny me that right." "_I_ cannot," said the Archbishop. "She does." This pulled Max up with a jerk: not that he yet believed it, however. "Where is she now?" he inquired. "She has joined the Sisterhood of Poverty. To-day she entered her profession." The Prince choked. "That is horrible!" he said. "You mean she has taken vows?" The Archbishop of Ebury bowed his head. "For the remainder of _my_ life at all events," he said in a stricken tone. "She will not return here. My house is left desolate to me--because of you." "You still have guests," said the Prince. "That is an unworthy gibe," retorted his Grace. "My work has still to go on." "I beg your pardon," said Max. "I have written to her," he added after a pause; "and she has not answered. Will your Grace be good enough----" "I do not think she will. She prays for you. If you came, I was to tell you that." Again there was silence for a time. "When I was a child," said the Prince, "I had an old nurse, who whenever I did anything wrong--as whipping was not allowed--used to go down on her knees and pray for me; and she always did it against a blank wall. I suppose it helped her. That has always remained my vision of prayer. And now I shall always think of your daughter with her dear face turned to a blank wall, praying for you and me--her murderers." He went out. "Upon my word!" thought the Archbishop, "that is a dangerous man to be heir to a throne." CHAPTER XXI NIGHT-LIGHT I And meanwhile the Prince of Schnapps-Wasser had arrived; and Max, instead of pursuing his own love-affair, ought to have been busy entertaining him.