Paul sprang to his feet. "With you, it looks inevitable. You hypnotise me into believing. But there are heaps of things to be said. I do see the need for authority; I do understand the reasonableness of the whole philosophy--from the Incarnation to relics and indulgences--it's reasonable enough, it's logical; but is it true? Is Peter true? Is the Church what you say? Come to that, is the Gospel story itself true? Is it? Is it? Oh, my God, I would give everything to know!" He stood there, hands flung out, his whole soul in his face. And as his tense voice ceased, the silence of the room hemmed them in. Slowly Father Vassall got, too, to his feet. They faced each other across the rug, and the black Madonna, hung with dripping beads, thrust her Son out before them. "Oh, my dear, I'm afraid for you!" whispered the priest, staring. "Afraid?" He nodded. "You see, you have the soul of a r-religious and that's no t-t-trifle. And there you dare to stand, asking if the story of B-Bethlehem and C-Calvary is true!" "Well?" Paul was defiant. The priest crossed the room, and came back from a little search on the table with a paper in his hand. All the merriment had died out of his face; it looked years older, wan. "I w-want you to p-promise me something," he said, stammering much again in his emotion. Paul leant back against the mantelpiece, wearily. "What, Father?" he asked; "I'll do anything I can." "You c-c-can do this, ea-easily. Don't let's argue any more all the time you're here. Don't read books, except the N-N-New T-T-Testament. And promise me to pray this every day in the chapel before the S-Sacrament with all your heart." He held out a paper. "I've w-w-written it out for you," he said. Paul took the half-sheet of notepaper, written in the clear print of the priest's hand. He read it through once, and then he read it through again, only, this time, the letters were a little blurred. Then he looked up at his friend. "Father," he said, "I can't help it. I know this, whatever anyone says. You bring our Lord to me as no one and nothing else has ever done." "Ah, then," cried the priest, "if you turn back now!" Bridget put her head in. "Supper's ready, your reverence," she said. Father Vassall nodded swiftly at her. "You promise?" he said, turning to Paul. "Oh, yes. And you'll pray for me?" Father Vassall laughed meaningly. "Come to supper," he said gaily. "It's p-p-pork and b-b-beans. But I can give you a glass of Sp-Sp-Spanish B-B-Burgundy!" (2) In the chapel that night Paul prayed his prayer for the first time. The priest walked in before him and showed him to his chair and a prayer-desk with a courtly little gesture. The three servants sat behind. A candle was already lit for Paul, and one burned also for the priest in his corner. There was a white sanctuary lamp before the altar, and a red one on the left. Otherwise there was no light.