They had not remained unremarked by Francesco, and the spark of rebellion which had slumbered in his soul all these long and weary months was fanned to devouring flame, as with inexpressible loathing his gaze rested upon the man who was the abomination of Christendom, the instrument of the Pontiff. "What proof have we that you are atoning for the transgressions of one who passed from earth in mortal sin?" the Pontiff queried after a pause, while a fatuous smile played about Anjou's lips. "The garb I wear," Francesco flashed. "The garb your Holiness has imposed!" The Pontiff regarded him quizzically. "You have served your novitiate?" "At Monte Cassino!" "How fares the Prior? It is many moons since we have visited his mountain-heights!" Francesco gave a brief account of his life at the cloister, up to the time when he had received the summons to Rome. Clement listened warily, the lawyer in his expression uppermost. "You come from Rome?" Francesco shivered at the memory. "From Rome!" he replied curtly. "What of the city?" "King Conradino lords the Capitol!" "You have seen the Pretender?" "We have stood face to face." "What is he like?" Francesco gazed from Clement to Anjou "A man!" The Pontiff nodded, as if he approved the observation. In the man Francesco had long discovered the judicial mind, and the discreet intelligence of the trained statesman. From the shadows the Pontiff was warily regarding the sun-steeped features of the young monk. At last, his voice sinking down to its accustomed calm, he said, as if feeling his ground: "Does the new life satisfy your soul?" The restless, ceaseless pain of longing again knocked at Francesco's heart, and with it returned the old spirit of rebellion, which had possessed him in the days of his novitiate at Monte Cassino. And, unconsciously, he repeated the words of the Duke of Spoleto: "Men make a patchwork quilt of life, and call the patchwork religion and law." An audible gasp was wafted to his ears. Clement opened his hand and dropped the little crucifix, which he had been fingering during their talk, with a gesture of rejection, on the floor behind him. The palm of the hand, still stretched and open, bore sharp red marks. The point of the cross had evidently just been pressed into it with convulsive energy. "Obedience is holiness," the Pontiff said at last, with a sweep of his hand. Francesco discovered himself unwittingly gazing in the direction of Anjou. The Pontiff intercepted the look. Perhaps there was a reason for his question which Francesco was far from guessing, as he suavely said: "You do not conceive, my son, that the Church can err in the choice of her instruments?" "I have heard of some striking instances of the readiness of the servants of the Church," he replied with a straight look at Anjou, "to suppress the spirit when it suited them to do so." At these words a change, visible even in the shadows, crossed the features of the Provencal leader.