Schuabe rose quickly from his chair and stood facing him. His face was pallid, something looked out of his eyes which almost frightened the other. "What do you know?" he cried as if in a swift stroke of pain. "Who--?" He stopped as if by a tremendous effort. Some thought came to reassure him. "Listen," he said. "I tell you, paid priest as you are, a blind man leading the blind, that a day is coming when all your boasted fabric of Christianity will disappear. It will go suddenly, and be swept utterly away. And you, you shall see it. You shall be left naked of your faith, stripped and bare, with all Christendom beside you. Your pale Nazarene shall die amid the bitter laughter of the world, die as surely as He died two thousand years ago, and no man or woman shall resurrect Him. You know nothing, but you will remember my words of to-night, until you also become as nothing and endure the inevitable fate of mankind." He had spoken with extraordinary vehemence, hissing the words out with a venom and malice, general rather than particular, from which the Churchman shrunk, shuddering. There was such unutterable _conviction_ in the thin, evil voice that for a moment the pain of it was like a spasm of physical agony. Schuabe had thrown down the mask; it was even as Gortre said, the soul of Iscariot looked out from those eyes. The man saw the clergyman's sudden shrinking. The smile of a devil flashed over his face. Gortre had turned to him once more and he saw it. And as he watched an awful certainty grew within him, a thought so appalling that beside it all that had gone before sank into utter insignificance. He staggered for a moment and then rose to his full height, a fearful loathing in his eyes, a scorn like a whip of fire in his voice. Schuabe blanched before him, for he saw the truth in the priest's soul. "As the Lord of Hosts is my witness," cried Gortre loudly, "I know you now for what you are! YOU KNOW THAT CHRIST IS GOD!" Schuabe shrank into his chair. "ANTICHRIST!" pealed out the accusing voice. "You know the truth full well, and, knowing, in an awful presumption you have dared to lift your hand against God." Then there was a dead silence in the room. Schuabe sat motionless by the dying fire. Very slowly the colour crept back into his cheeks. Slowly the strength and light entered his eyes. He moved slightly. At last he spoke. "Go," he said. "Go, and never let me see your face again. You have spoken. Yet I tell you still that such a blinding blow shall descend on Christendom that----" He rose quickly from his chair. His manner changed utterly with a marvellous swiftness. He went to the window and pulled aside the curtain. A chill and ghostly dawn came creeping into the library.