"I know of course that, in your case, there can be no question of clinging to the money of the Church." Meynell flushed. "I had not meant to speak of it--but your lordship knows that all I receive from my living is given back to church purposes. I support myself by what I write. There are others of us who risk much more than I--who risk indeed their all!" "You have done a noble work for your people, Meynell." The Bishop's voice was not unlike a groan. "I have done nothing but what was my bounden duty to do." "And practically your parish is with you in this terrible business?" "The church people in it, by an immense majority--and some of the dissenters. Mr. Barron, as you know, is the chief complainant, and there are of course some others with him." "I expect to see Mr. Barron this afternoon," remarked the Bishop, frowning. Meynell said nothing. The Bishop rose. "I understand from your letter this morning that you have no intention of repeating the service of last Sunday?" "Not at present. But the League will go to work at once on a revised service-book." "Which you propose to introduce on a given Sunday--in all the Reformers' churches?" "That is our plan." "You are quite aware that this whole scheme may lead to tumults--breaches of the peace?" "It may," said Meynell reluctantly. "But you risk it?" "We must," said Meynell, after a pause. "And you refuse--I ask you once more--to resign your living, at my request?" "I do--for the reasons I have given." The Bishop's eyes sparkled. "As to my course," he said, dryly, "Letters of Request will be sent at once to the Court of Arches preferring charges of heretical teaching and unauthorized services against yourself and two other clergy. I shall be represented by so-and-so." He named the lawyers. They stood, exchanging a few technical informations of this kind for a few minutes. Then Meynell took up his hat. The Bishop hesitated a moment, then held out his hand. Meynell grasped it, and suddenly stooped and kissed the episcopal ring. "I am an old man"--said the Bishop brokenly--"and a weary one. I pray God that He will give me strength to bear this burden that is laid upon me." Meynell went away, with bowed head. The Bishop was left alone. He moved to the window and stood looking out. Across the green of the quadrangle rose the noble mass of the Cathedral. His lips moved in prayer; but all the time it was as though he saw beside the visible structure--its ordered beauty, its proud and cherished antiquity--a ruined phantom of the great church, roofless and fissured, its sacred places open to the winds and rains, its pavements broken and desolate. The imagination grew upon him, and it was only with a great effort that he escaped from it. "My bogies are as foolish as Barbara's," he said to himself with a smile as he went back to the daily toil of his letters. CHAPTER VI