Monsignor got up suddenly. It seemed to him that he must move about. He felt restless, as a man who has lived in twilight might feel upon coming out into sudden brilliant and healthful sunlight. He began to walk to and fro. The other said nothing, but the restless man felt that the eyes were watching and following every movement. He reflected that it was unfair to be stared at by eyes that were grey, outlined in black, and crossed by straight lids. Then he summoned his resolution. "Father," he said, "I am unhappy altogether." "Yes? (Sit down, please, Monsignor.)" He sat down, and leaned his forehead on his hands. "You are unhappy altogether," repeated the monk. "And what form does that unhappiness take?" Monsignor lifted his face. "Father," he said, "you know about me? You know about my history? . . . My memory?" "Yes, I know all that. But it is not that which makes you unhappy?" "No," cried the priest suddenly and impulsively, "it is not that. I wish to God it were! I wish to God my memory would leave me again!" "Quietly, please." But the other paid no attention. "It is . . . it is the world I am living in--this brutal world.... Father, help me." The monk drew a breath and leaned back, and his movement had the effect of a call for silence. Neither spoke for a moment. Then---- "Just tell me quite simply, from the beginning," said the monk. (VI) It was nearly half an hour later that Monsignor ended, and leaned back, at once exhausted and excited. He had said it all--he had said even more than he had previously formulated to himself. Now and then, as he paused, the monk with a word or two, or a strangely compelling look, had soothed or encouraged him. And he had told the whole thing--the sense that there was no longer any escape from Christianity, that it had dominated the world, and that it was hateful and tyrannical in its very essence. He confessed that logic was against him, that a wholly Christian society must protect itself, that he saw no way of evading the consequences that he had witnessed; and yet that his entire moral sense revolted against the arguments of his head. It seemed to him, he said in effect, as if he were held in a grip which outraged his whole sentiment; as if the universe itself were in a conspiracy against him. For there was wanting, he said, exactly that which was most characteristic of Christianity, exactly that which made it divine--a heavenly patience and readiness to suffer. The cross had been dropped by the Church, he said, and shouldered by the world. The monk sat silent a moment or two, as motionless as he had been at the beginning. Monsignor perceived by now, even through his fierce agitation, that this man never moved except for a purpose; he made no gestures when he spoke; he turned his head or lifted his eyes only when it was necessary. Then the monk's voice began again, level and unemotional: * * * * *