Once more then his individuality began to reassert itself, and to attempt to cast off the spell even of this peace that promised relief. He became aware of an extraordinary loneliness of soul, an isolation in the deepest regions of his soul from all others. The rest of the world, it seemed, had an understanding about these matters. Father Jervis and the Carthusian no doubt had talked him over; they accepted as an established and self-evident philosophy this universal unity and authority; they regarded himself, who could not yet so accept it, as a spiritual, if not an actual mental invalid. . . . He had been brought here to be treated. . . . Well, he would hold his own. And then another mood came on him--a temptation, as it seemed to him then, to fling personal responsibility overboard; to accept this tremendous claim of authority to control even the thoughts of the heart. Surely peace lay this way. To submit to this crowned and sceptred Christ; to reject for ever the other--this meant relief and sanity. . . . He walked more and more quickly and abruptly up and down the little tiled space. He was conscious of a conflict all confused with dust and smoke. He began to hesitate as to which was the higher, even which was the tolerable course--to sink his individuality, to throw up his hands and drown, or to assert that individuality openly and defiantly, and to take the consequences. (V) He awoke the next morning after a troubled night, conscious instantly of a sense of crisis. In one way or another, it seemed, he would have to come to a decision. The monk would be with him in less than an hour. He dressed as before and breakfasted. Then, as the monk did not come, he went out to the tribune to pray and to prepare himself. Ten minutes later the door opened quietly, and the lay-brother who had attended on him bowed to him as he turned, in sign that he was to come. The monk was standing by the fireplace as he came in; he bowed very slightly. Then the two sat down. * * * * * "Tell me why you have come here, Monsignor." The prelate moistened his lips. He was aware again of an emotion that was partly terror and partly confidence. And there was mixed with it, too, an extraordinary sense of simplicity. Conventionalities were useless here, he saw; he was expected to say what was in his heart, but at first he dared not. "I . . . I was recommended to come," he said. "My friends thought I needed a little rest." The other nodded gently. He was no longer looking straight at him, the secular priest was relieved to see. "Yes? And what form does it take?" Still the patient hesitated. He began a sentence or two, and stopped again. Then the monk lifted his great head and looked straight at him. "Be quite simple, Monsignor," he said, "you need fear nothing. You are here to be helped, are you not? Then tell me plainly."