“I believe their inviolability is to be guaranteed by the Powers. But a paper guarantee!--your Greatness knows what that is, something that the Jews will tear up as soon as the Powers need money.” “We will preach a holy war against Mortimer and his Jews!” cried the Bishop. “The Orthodox of Scythia and the Balkans will rise in their millions, and free the Holy Places for ever from the dogs.” “But the conflict would be terrible, even if we were successful. Let your Greatness reflect a moment. The Jews can hire soldiers--Protestants, Moslems, Pagans even--and there will be plenty of Hebrews who have been forced to serve in the Scythian armies to lead them. And if Sigismund of Hercynia should be seized with an impulse to take their part----” “I see, I see,” interrupted the Bishop hastily. “But is there no hope of sowing dissension among the Jews? If those of one country alone could be brought to detach themselves from this infamous alliance, its power would be broken. I would support--even propose--concessions, substantial concessions, for the Jews in Thracia, if they would consent to abandon Count Mortimer’s scheme.” “It would be useless. By means of some extraordinary system of terrorism, the originators of the plan have contrived to force all the Jews in the world to enter into combination with them. I questioned Speyerl, the Princess’s Vindobona banker, on the subject as I came out here, but he would tell me nothing. I could see that his mouth watered at the thought of the profit he might make if he broke loose from his countrymen, but he assured me he durst not do it.” “The thought of the next world has little terror for a Jew,” said the Bishop, with a laugh. “Count Mortimer has probably made use of very mundane threats.” “As mundane as his own hopes,” agreed Colonel Czartoriski. “Has your Greatness guessed who is to share with him the throne he intends to establish in Jerusalem? No other than your late beloved and venerated regent, her Majesty Queen Ernestine!” Bishop Philaret sprang to his feet, and an exclamation broke from him which in a layman would have been called an oath, but from his ecclesiastical lips was doubtless a solemn curse. If there was one person whom he hated more than Cyril, it was Queen Ernestine, who had refused him the Metropolitical mitre thirteen years before, preferring to dismiss M. Drakovics and risk a revolution rather than consent to his appointment. For some minutes he strode up and down the room, alternately muttering anathemas and gnawing his beard, then halted abruptly before Colonel Czartoriski. “See here,” he said rapidly, “I will force my way into this convent at Brutli, and demand an interview with the Queen. She knows me of old--that I do not hesitate to strike--and I will make her understand that if she desires to see her lover again alive, he must give up both the Jews and his schemes of self-aggrandisement.”