"He cares for the things for which we should care. I do commend him to your attention----" There was a long silence. The rain that had begun a thick drizzle dripped on the panes. The room was so dark that the Dean asked Bond to light the gas. They all waited while this was being done. At last the Dean spoke: "We are all very grateful to you, Archdeacon, for helping us as you have done. I think, gentlemen, that unless there is some other name definitely to be proposed we had better now vote on these two names. "Is there any further name suggested?" No one spoke. "Very well, then. I think this morning, contrary to our usual custom, we will record our votes on paper. I have Archdeacon Witheram's letter here advising me of his wishes in this matter." Paper and pens were before every one. The votes were recorded and sent up to the Dean. He opened the little pieces of paper slowly. At last he said: "One vote has been recorded in favour of Mr. Forsyth, the rest for Mr. Wistons. Mr. Wistons is therefore appointed to the living of Pybus St. Anthony." Brandon was on his feet. His body trembled like a tree tottering. He flung out his hands. "No.... No.... Stop one moment. You must. You--all of you---- "Mr. Dean--all of you.... Oh, God, help me now!...You have been influenced by your feelings about myself. Forget me, turn me away, send me from the town, anything, anything.... I beseech you to think only of the good of the Cathedral in this affair. If you admit this man it is the beginning of the end. Slowly it will all be undermined. Belief in Christ, belief in God Himself.... Think of the future and your responsibility to the unborn children when they come to you and say: 'Where is our faith? Why did you take it from us? Give it back to us!' Oh, stop for a moment! Postpone this for only a little while. Don't do this thing!...Gentlemen!" They could see that he was ill. His body swayed as though it were beyond his control. His hands were waving, turning, beseeching.... Suddenly tears were running down his cheeks. "Not this shame!" he cried. "Not this shame!--kill me--but save the Cathedral!" They were on their feet. Foster and Ryle had come round to him. "Archdeacon, sit down." "You're ill." "Rest a moment" With a great heave of his shoulders he flung them off, a chair falling to the ground with the movement. He saw Ronder. "You!...my enemy. Are you satisfied now?" he whispered. He held out his quivering hand. "Take my hand. You've done your worst." He turned round as though he would go from the room. Stumbling, he caught Foster by the shoulder as though he would save himself. He bent forward, staring into Foster's face. "God is love, though," he said. "You betray Him again and again, but He comes back." He gripped Foster's shoulder more tightly. "Don't do this thing, man," he said. "Don't do it. Because Ronder's beaten me is no reason for you to betray your God.... Give me a chair. I'm ill." He fell upon his knees.