“And more bad, beloved Lotys,” returned Paul. “Tout le deux se disent! But let us think of the Holy Father!--he who, after long years of patient and sublime credulity, is now, for all we know, bracing himself to take the inevitable plunge into the dark waters of Eternity! Poor frail old man! Who would not pity him! His earthly home has been so small and cosy and restricted,--he has been taken such tender care of--the faithful have fallen at his feet in such adoring thousands,--and now--away from all this warmth and light and incense, and colour of pictures and stained-glass windows, and white statuary and purple velvets, and golden-fringed palanquins,--now--out into the cold he must go!--out into the darkness and mystery and silence!--where all the former generations of the world, immense and endless, and all the old religions, are huddled away in the mist of the mouldered past!--out into the thick blackness, where maybe the fiery heads of Bel and the Dragon may lift themselves upward and leer at him!--or he may meet the frightful menace of some monstrous Mexican deity, once worshipped with the rites of blood!--out--out into the unknown, unimaginable Amazement must the poor naked Soul go shuddering on the blast of death, to face he truly knows not what!--but possibly he has such a pitiful blind trust in good, that he may be re-transformed into some pleasant living consciousness that shall be more agreeable even than that of Pope of Rome! ‘Mourir c’est rien,--mais souffrir!’ That is the hard part of it! Let us all pray for the Pope, my friends!--he is an old man!” “When you are silent, Zouche,” said Thord with a half smile; “We may perhaps meditate upon him in our thoughts,--but not while you talk thus volubly! You take up time--and Pequita is getting tired.” “Yes,” said Lotys; “Pequita and I will go home, and there will be no dancing to-night.”