“Which means,” Christian went on to explain, “that my place is not upon either side of the question, but in the middle. I belong to no party, and I am the enemy of no man. I do not lead men's opinions. It is my duty to state facts as plainly and as coldly as possible in order that my countrymen may form their own judgment. It may appear that at one time I write upon one side of the question; the next week I may seem to write upon the other. That is one of the misfortunes of my calling.” “Then we are not necessarily enemies,” said the Jesuit softly. “No--not necessarily. On the other hand,” continued Christian, with daring deliberation, “it is not at all necessary that we should be friends.” The Jesuit smiled slightly--so slightly that it was the mere ghost of a smile, affecting the lines of his small mouth, but in no way relieving the soft darkness of his eyes. “Then we are enemies,” he said. “He whose follower I am, said that all who are not with Him are against Him.” The Englishman's lips closed suddenly, and a peculiar stony look came over his face. There was one subject upon which he had determined not to converse. “I am instructed,” continued the Provincial, with a sudden change of manner from pleasant to practical, “to ask of you a written promise never to write one word either for or against the Society of Jesus again. In exchange for that promise I am empowered to tender to you the sincere apologies of the Society for the inconvenience to which you may have been put, and to assist you in every way to return home at once.” A great silence followed this speech. A small clock suspended somewhere in the room ticked monotonously, otherwise there was no sound audible. The two men sat within a yard of each other, each thinking, of the other in his individual way, from his individual point of view, the Jesuit with downcast eyes, his companion watching his immobile features. At length Christian Vellacott's full and quiet tones broke the spell. “Of course,” he said simply, “I refuse.” The Provincial rose from his seat, pushing it back as he did so. “Then I will not detain you any longer. You are no doubt fatigued. The lay brother waiting outside will show you the room assigned to you, and at whatever time of day or night you may wish to see me, remember that I am at your service.” Christian rose also. He appeared to hesitate, and then to grasp the table with both hands to assist himself. He stood for a moment, and suddenly tottered forward. Had not the Provincial caught him he would have fallen. “My head turns,” he mumbled incoherently. “What is the matter? ... what is the matter?” The Jesuit slipped his arm round him--a slight arm, but as hard and strong as steel. “You are tired,” he said sympathetically, “perhaps you have a little touch of fever. Come, I will assist you to your room.” And the two men passed out together. CHAPTER XXIII STRICKEN DOWN