CHAPTER V.

THE LEGATE OF THE POPE.

As Gaspar Manuel left the house of Ezekiel Bogart, he wrapped his cloak closely about his form, and drew his sombrero low upon his face. His head drooped upon his breast as he hurried along, with a quick and impetuous step. Soon he was in Broadway again, amid its glare and uproar, but he did not raise his head, nor turn his gaze to the right or left. Head drooped upon his breast and arms gathered tightly over his chest, he threaded his way through the mazes of the crowd, as absent from the scene around him, as a man walking in his sleep.

Arrived at the Astor House, he hurried to his room and changed his dress. Divesting himself of his fashionable attire--black dress-coat, scarf, white-vest--he clad himself in a single-breasted frock-coat, buttoned to the throat and reaching below the knees. Above its straight collar, a glimpse of his white cravat was perceptible. And over the dark surface of his coat, was wound a massy gold chain, to which was appended, a Golden Seal and a Golden Cross. Over this costume, which in its severe simplicity, displayed his slender frame to great advantage, he threw his cloak, and once more hurried from the Hotel.

Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the Astor, he engaged a hackney-coach--

"Do you know where, ---- ----, resides?" he asked of the driver; a huge individual, in a white overcoat, and oil-skin hat.

"Sure and I does jist that," was the answer. "It's meself that knows the residence of his Riv'rence as well as the nose on my face."

"Drive me there, at once," said Gaspar Manuel.

And presently the carriage was rolling up Broadway, bearing Gaspar Manuel to the residence of a prominent dignitary of the Roman Catholic Church.

As the little clock on the mantle struck the hour of eleven, the Prelate was sitting in an easy chair, in front of a bright wood fire. It was in a spacious apartment, connected with his library by a narrow door. Two tall wax candles, placed upon the table by his side, shed their light over the softly carpeted floor, the neatly papered walls, and over the person of the Prelate, who was seated at his ease, in the center of the scene.

The Prelate was a man of some forty-five years, with boldly marked features, and sharp fiery eyes, indicating an incessantly active mind. The light fell mildly on his tonsured crown, encircled by brown hair, streaked with gray, and his bold forehead and compressed lip. His form broad in the shoulders, muscular in the chest, and slightly inclined to corpulence, was clad in a long robe of dark purple, reaching from his throat to his feet. There was a cross on his right breast and a diamond ring on the little finger of his left-hand.

Thus alone, in his most private room--the labors of the day accomplished and the world shut out--the Prelate was absorbed in the mazes of a delightful reverie.

He fixed his eyes upon a picture which hung over the mantle, on the left. It was a portrait of Cardinal Dubois, who in the days of the Regency, trailed his Red Hat in the mire of nameless debaucheries.

"Fool!" muttered the Prelate, "he had not even sense to hide his vices, under the thinnest vail of decency."

He turned his eyes to a portrait which hung over the mantle on the right. "There was a man!" he muttered, and a smile shot over his face. The portrait was that of Cardinal Richelieu who butchered the Huguenots in France, while he was supplying armies to aid the Protestants of Germany. Richelieu, one of those Politicians who seem to regard the Church simply as a machine for the advancement of their personal ambition,--the cross as a glittering bauble, only designed to dazzle the eyes of the masses,--the seamless Cloak of the Redeemer, as a cloak intended to cover outrages the most atrocious, which are done in the name of God.

"He was a man!" repeated the Prelate. "He moulded the men and events of his time, and,----" he stopped. He smiled. "Why cannot I mould to my own purposes, the men and events of my time, using the Church as a convenient engine?" Some thought like this seemed to flit over his mind.

Having attentively turned his gaze from Cardinal Dubois to Cardinal Richelieu, the Prelate at length fixed his eyes upon a marble bust, which stood in the center of the mantle. And his lips moved, and his eyes flashed, and his right hand waved slowly to and fro, before his face, as though he saw a glorious future, drawn in the air, by a prophetic pencil.

The marble bust upon which he gazed, was the bust of one, who from the very lowest walk in life had risen to be Pope: and one of the strongest, sternest Popes that ever held the scepter of the Vatican.

"It can be won," ejaculated the Prelate, "and the means lie here," he placed his hand upon a Map which lay on the table. It was a map of the American Continent.

"I came up stairs without ceremony," said a calm even voice; "your Grace's servant informed me, that you expected me."

"I am heartily glad to see you, my Lord," said the Prelate, turning abruptly and confronting his visitor: "it is now two years since I met your Lordship in Rome. It was, you remember, just before you departed to Mexico, as the Legate of His Holiness. How has it been with you since I saw you last?"

"I have encountered many adventures," answered "His Lordship," the Legate, "and none more interesting than those connected with the Mission of San Luis and its lands--"

Thus saying the Legate--in obedience to a courteous gesture from the Prelate--flung aside his hat and cloak, and took a seat by the table.

The Legate was none other than our friend Gaspar Manuel.

They were in singular contrast, the Legate and the Prelate. The muscular form and hard _practical_ face of the Prelate, was certainly, in strong contrast with the slender frame, and pale--almost corpse-like--face of the Legate, with its waving hair and beard of inky blackness. Conscious that their conversation might one day have its issue, in events or in disclosures of vital importance, they for a few moments surveyed each other in silence. When the Prelate spoke, there was an air of deference in his manner, which showed that he addressed one far superior to himself in position, in rank and power.

We will omit the Lordships and Graces with which these gentlemen, interlarded their conversation. Lordships and Graces and Eminences, are matters with which we simple folks of the American Union, are but poorly acquainted.

"You are last from Havana?" asked the Prelate.

"Yes," answered the Legate: "and a month ago I was in the city of Mexico; two months since in California, at the mission of San Luis."

"And the Fathers are likely to regain possession of the deserted mission? You intimated so much in the letter which you were kind enough to write me from Havana."

"They are likely to regain possession," said the Legate.

"But the mission will be worth nothing without the thousand acres of _barren_ land," continued the Prelate: "Will the _barren land_ go with the mission?"

"In regard to that point I will inform you fully before we part. For the present let me remind you, that it was an important part of my mission, to the New World, to ascertain the prospects of the Church in that section of the Continent, known as the United States. Allow me to solicit from you, a brief exposition of the condition and prospects of our Church in this part of the globe."

The Prelate laid his hand upon the American Continent:

"The north, that is the Republic of the United States, will finally absorb and rule over all the nations of the Continent. By war, by peace, in one way or another the thing is certain--"

He paused: the Legate made a gesture of assent.

"It is our true policy, then, to absorb and rule over the Republic of the North. To make our Church the secret spring of its Government; to gradually and without exciting suspicion, mould every one of its institutions to our own purposes; to control the education of its people, and bend the elective franchise to our will. Is not this our object?"

Again the Legate signified assent.

"And this must be done, by making New York the center of our system. New York is in reality, the metropolis of the Continent; from New York as from a common center, therefore all our efforts must radiate. From New York we will control the Republic, shape it year by year to our purposes; as it adds nation after nation to its Union, we will make our grasp of its secret springs of action, the more certain and secure; and at last the hour will come, when this Continent apparently one united republic, will in fact, be the richest altar, the strongest abiding-place, the most valuable property of the Church. Yes, the hour will come, when the flimsy scaffolding of Republicanism will fall, and as it falls, our Church will stand revealed, her foundation in the heart of the American Republic; her shadow upon every hill and valley of the Continent. For you know," and his eye flashed, "that our battle against what is called Democracy and Progress, is to be fought not in the Old World, where everything is on our side, but in the New World, where these damnable heresies do most abound."

"True," interrupted the Legate, thoughtfully; "the New World is the battle-field of opinions. Here the fight must take place."

"You ask how our work is to begin? Here in New York we will commence it. Hundreds of thousands of foreigners of our faith arrive in this city every year. Be it our task to plant an eternal barrier between these men, and those who are American citizens by birth. To prevent them from mingling with the American People, from learning the traditions of American history, which give the dogma of Democracy its strongest hold upon the heart, to _isolate_ them, in the midst of the American nation. In a word, the first step of our work is, to array at the zealous _Foreign_ party, an opposition to an envenomed _Native American_ party."

"This you have commenced already," said the Legate,--"it was in Mexico, that I heard of Philadelphia last summer--of Philadelphia on the verge of civil war with Protestants and Catholics flooding the gutters with their blood, while the flames of burning churches lit up the midnight sky."

"The outbreak was rather premature," calmly continued the Prelate, "but it has done us good. It has invested us with the light of martyrdom, the glory of persecution. It has drawn to us the sympathies of tens of thousands of Protestants, who, honestly disliking the assaults of the mere 'No-Popery' lecturers upon our church, as honestly entertain the amusing notion, that the Rulers of our church, look upon 'Toleration, Liberty of Conscience,' and so forth, with any feeling, but profound contempt."

"Ah!" ejaculated the Legate, and a smile crossed his face, "deriving strength from the illimitable bitterness of the Native American and Foreign political parties, we already hold in many portions of the Union, the ballot box in our grasp. We can dictate terms to both political parties. Their leaders court us. Editors who know that we rooted Protestantism out of Spain, by the red hand of the Inquisition,--that for our faith we made the Netherlands rich in gibbets and graves,--that we gave the word, which started from its scabbard the dagger of St. Bartholomew,--grave editors, who know all this and more, talk of us as the friends of Liberty and Toleration--"

"But there was Calvert, the founder of Maryland, and Carroll the signer of the Declaration of Independence, these were Catholics, were they not, Catholics and friends of Liberty?"

"They were _laymen_, not _rulers_, you will remember," said the Prelate, significantly: "at best they belonged to a sort of Catholics, which, in the Old World, we have done our best to root out of the church. But here, however, we can use their names and their memories, as a cloak for our purposes of ultimate dominion. But to resume: both political parties court us. Their leaders, who loathe us, are forced to kneel to us. Things we can do freely and without blame, which damn any Protestant sect but to utter. The very 'No-Popery' lecturers aid us: they attack doctrinal points in our church, which are no more assailable than the doctrinal points of any one of their ten thousand sects: they would be dangerous, indeed, were they to confine their assaults to the simple fact, that ours is not so much a church as an EMPIRE, having for its object, the temporal dominion of the whole human race, to be accomplished under the vail of spiritualism. An EMPIRE built upon the very sepulcher of Jesus Christ,--an EMPIRE which holds Religion, the Cross, the Bible, as valuable just so far as they aid its efforts for the temporal subjection of the world,--an EMPIRE which, using all means and holding all means alike lawful, for the spread of its dominion, has chosen the American Continent as the scene of its loftiest triumph, the theater of its final and most glorious victories!"

As he spoke the Atheist Prelate started from his chair.

Far different from those loving Apostles, who through long ages, have in the Catholic Church, repeated in their deeds, the fullness of Love, which filled the breast of the Apostle John,--far different from the Fenelons and Paschals of the church,--this Prelate was a cold-blooded and practical Atheist. Love of women, love of wine, swayed him not. Lust of power was his spring of action--his soul. He may have at times, assented to Religion, but that he believed in it as an awful verity, as a Truth worth all the physical power and physical enjoyment in the universe,--the Prelate never had a thought like this. An ambitious atheist, a Borgia without his lust, a Richelieu with all of Richelieu's cunning, and not half of Richelieu's intellect, a cold-blooded, practical schemer for his own elevation at any cost,--such was the Prelate. Talk to him of Christ as a consoler, as a link between crippled humanity and a better world, as of a friend who meets you on the dark highway of life, and takes you from sleet and cold, into the light of a dear, holy home,--talk to him of the love which imbues and makes alive every word from the lips of Christ,--ha! ha! Your atheistical Prelate would laugh at the thought. He was a worldling. Risen from the very depths of poverty, he despised the poor from whom he sprung. For years a loud and even brawling advocate of justice for Ireland,--an ecclesiastical stump orator; a gatherer of the pennies earned by the hard hand of Irish labor,--he was the man to blaspheme her cause and vilify its honest advocates, when her dawn of Revolution darkened into night again. He was the pugilist of the Pulpit, the gladiator of controversy, always itching for a fight, never so happy as when he set honest men to clutching each other by the throat. Secure in his worldly possessions, rich from the princely revenues derived from the poor--the hard working poor of his church,--a tyrant to the parish priests who were so unfortunate as to be subjected to his sway, by turns the Demagogue of Irish freedom and the _Mouchard_ of Austrian despotism, he was a vain, bad, cunning, but _practical_ man, this Atheist Prelate of the Roman Church.

"Now, what think you of our plans and our prospects?" said the Prelate, triumphantly--"can we not, using New York as the center of our operations, the Ballot Box, social dissension and sectarian warfare as the means, can we not, mould the New World to our views, and make it Rome, Rome, in every inch of its soil?"

The Legate responded quietly:

"I see but one obstacle--"

"Only one; that is well--"

"And that obstacle is not so much the memory of the American Past, which some of these foolish Americans still consider holy--not so much the memory of Penn the Quaker; Calvert the Catholic, who planted their silly dogma of Brotherly love on the Delaware and St. Mary's, in the early dawn of this country,--not so much the Declaration of Independence, nor the blood-marks which wrote its principles, on the soil from Bunker Hill to Savannah, from Brandywine to Yorktown,--not so much the history of the sixty-eight years, which in the American Republic, have shown a growth, an enterprise, a development never witnessed on God's earth before,--not so much all this, as the single obstacle which I now lay on the table before you."

And from the breast of his coat he drew forth a small, thin volume, which he laid upon the table:

"This!" cried the Prelate, as though a bomb-shell had burst beneath his chair; "This! Why this is the four Gospels according to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John!"

"Precisely. And Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, those simple fellows are the very ones whom we have most to fear."

"But I have driven this book from the Common Schools!" cried the Prelate, rather testily.

"Have you driven it from the home?" quietly asked the Legate.

The Prelate absently toyed with his cross, but did not answer.

"Can you drive it from the home?" asked the Legate.

The Prelate gazed at the portrait of Cardinal Dubois, and then at Richelieu's, but did not reply.

"Do you not see the difficulty?" continued the Legate, "so long as Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, sit down by the firesides of the people, making themselves a part and parcel of the dearest memories of every household,--so long we may chop logic, weave plots, traffic in casuistry, but in vain!"

"True, that book is capable of much mischief," said the Prelate; "it has caused more revolutions than you could count in a year."

"In Spain, where this book is scarcely known, in Italy, where to read it is imprisonment and chains, we can get along well enough, but here, in the United States, where this book is a fireside book in every home, the first book that the child looks into, and the last that the dying old man listens to, as his ear is growing deaf with death,--here what shall we do? You know that it is a Democratic book?"

"Yes."

"That it is so simple in its enunciations of brotherly love, equality, and the love of God for all mankind, so simple and yet so strong, that it has required eighteen centuries of scholastic casuistry and whole tons of volumes, devoted to theological special pleading, to darken its simple meaning?"

"Yes, yes."

"That in its portraitures of Christ, there is something that stirs the hearts of the humblest, and sets them on fire with the thought, 'I too, am not a beast, but a child of God, destined to have a home here and an immortality hereafter?' That its profound contempt of riches and of mere worldly power,--its injunctions to the rich, 'sell all thou hast and give to the poor;' its pictures of Christ, coming from the workman's bench, and speaking, acting, doing and dying, so that the masses might no longer be the sport of priest or king, but the recreated men and women of a recreated social world; that in all this, it has caused more revolutions, given rise to more insurrections, leveled more deadly blows at absolute authority, than all other books that have been written since the world began?"

"Yes--y-e-s--y-e-s," said the Prelate. "True, true, a mischievous book. But how would you remedy the evil?"

"That's the question," said the Legate, dryly.

After a long pause they began to talk concerning the mission of San Luis in California--its fertile hills and valleys, rich in the olive, fig, grape, orange and pomegranate,--and of the _thousand acres of barren land_, claimed alike by the Jesuits and Dr. Martin Fulmer.

"The claim of the Fathers, to the mission-house and lands of San Luis, is established then?" said the Prelate.

"It has been acknowledged by the Mexican Government," was the reply of the Legate.

"And the claim to the thousand barren acres?"

"It rests in my hands," replied the Legate: "by a train of circumstances altogether natural, although to some they may appear singular, it is in my power to decide, whether these thousand barren acres shall belong to our Church or to Dr. Martin Fulmer."

"And it is not difficult to see which way your verdict wall fall;" the Prelate's eyes sparkled and a smile lit up his harsh features.

"These acres are barren, barren so far as the fig, the orange, the vine, the pomegranate are concerned, barren even of the slightest portion of shrubbery or verdure, but rich--"

"Rich in gold!" ejaculated the Prelate, folding his arms and fixing his eyes musingly upon the fire,--"gold sufficient to pave my way from this chair to the Papal throne;" he muttered to himself. "In Rome," he said aloud, "I had an opportunity to examine the records of the various missions, established by our Church in California; and they all contain traditions of incredible stores of gold, hidden under the rocks and sands of California. Does your experience confirm those traditions?"

"I have traversed that land from the Sierra Nevada to the Pacific, and from North to South," replied the Legate, "and it is my opinion, based on facts, that California is destined to exercise an influence upon the course of civilization and the fate of nations, such as has not been felt for a thousand years."

He paused, as if collecting in his mind, in one focus, a panorama of the varied scenery, climate, productions, of the region between the snows of the Sierra Nevada and the Pacific. Then, while his pale face flushed with excitement, and his bright eyes grew even yet more vivid in their luster, he continued:

"The bowels of the land are rich in gold," he said, in that low-toned but musical voice. "It is woven in the seams of her rocks. It impregnates her soil. It gleams in the sand of her rivers. Gold, gold, gold,--such as Banker never counted, nor the fancy of a Poet, ever dreamed of. Deep in her caverns the ore is shining; upon her mountain sides it flings back the rays of the sun; her forest trees are rooted in gold. Could you fathom her secrets, you would behold gold enough to set the world mad. Men would leave their homes, and all that makes life dear, and journey over land and sea, by hundreds of thousands, in pilgrimage to this golden land. The ships of the crusaders would whiten every sea, their caravans would belt every desert. The whole world, stirred into avaricious lust, would gravitate to this rock of gold."

Turning to the Prelate, he said abruptly:

"Did you ever attempt to unravel the superstition of Gold?"

"The superstition of Gold?" echoed the Prelate.

"Yes, superstition of gold. For that wide-spread opinion in regard to the value of gold, is one of the most incredible superstitions that ever damned the soul of man. It obtains in all ages and on every shore. In the days of the Patriarchs, and in the days of the Bankers,--among the sleekly-attired people of civilized races, and among savage hordes, naked as the beasts,--everywhere and in all ages, this superstition has obtained, and crushed mankind, not with an iron, but with a golden rod. (There are exceptions, I grant, as in the case of the North American Indians, and other savage tribes, but it cannot be denied, that this superstition which fixes a certain value on gold, has overspread the earth, in all ages, as universal as the very air.) What religion has ruled so absolutely and reigned so long, as this deep-implanted golden superstition,--this Catholic religion of the yellow ore?"

"But gold is valuable in itself," interrupted the Prelate--"it is something more than the representative of labor; in a thousand respects it surpasses all other metals. It is an article of merchandise, a part of commerce; even were it not money, it would always bring more money than any other metal."

"This is often said, and is plausible. Admit all you assert, and the question occurs, '_Why should it be so?_' When you say that gold is the most precious of all metals, an article of value in _itself_, as well as the representative of labor, you assert a fact, but you do not _explain_ that fact. Far, far from it. But why should it be so? What _use_ has it been to man, that it should receive this high distinction? Iron, lead, copper--all of these are a million fold more useful than gold--No--reflect a little while. Bend all your thought to the subject. Track the yellow ore through all ages, and at last, you must come to the conclusion, that the value placed upon gold is a superstition, as vast as it is wicked,--a superstition which has crushed more hearts and damned more souls, than all the (so called) _Religious_ superstitions that smear the page of history with blood. That such a superstition exists, would alone convince me of the existence of an embodied Devil, who, perpetually at war with God, does with a direct interference, derange his laws, and crush the hopes of his children."

For a moment, he shaded his eyes with his hand, while the Prelate gazed upon him, with something of surprise in his look.

"Can you estimate the evils which have flowed from this superstition? No. The reason falters, the imagination shudders: at the very thought you are bewildered,--dumb. But think of it as you will,--entangle yourself among the sophistries which attempt to explain, but in reality only darken it,--view it as a political economist, a banker, a merchant, or a worker in precious metals,--and you only plunge the deeper into the abyss of doubt and bewilderment. You cannot explain this superstition, unless you mount higher, and grasp that great law of God, which says, forever, '_It is wicked for_ ONE MAN _to clothe himself with luxury, at the expense of the sweat and blood of another_ MAN, _who is his Brother_.' Grasp this truth firmly; understand it in all its bearings,--and you discern the source of the Golden superstition; for it had its source, in that depraved idleness which seeks luxury at the expense of human suffering,--which coins enjoyment for a few men, on the immeasurable wretchedness of entire races of mankind. The first man who sought to rob his Brother of the fruits of his labor, and of his place on the earth, was doubtless the inventor of the golden superstition; for turn and twist it as you will, gold is only valuable because it _represents_ labor. All its value springs from that cause. It represents labor already done, and it represents labor that is to be done, and therefore,--therefore only,--is it valuable. And it is the most convenient engine by which the idlers of the World can enslave the laborers--therefore it has always retained its value. Backed by the _delusion_ which fixes upon it a certain value, and makes it more precious than the blood of hearts, or the salvation of the entire human race, gold will continue to be the great engine for the destruction of that race--for its moral and physical damnation--just as long as the few continue to live upon the wretchedness of the many. Once destroy this superstition,--take away from gold its certain value--make that value vague, uncertain, and subject to as many changes as a bank note,--and you will have wrested the lash from the hand of the oppressor all over the world."

These words made a deep impression upon the Prelate, an impression which he dared not trust himself to frame in words. Suppressing an exclamation that started to his lips, he asked in a calm conversational tone--

"Will the discovery of the golden land have this effect?"

It was in a saddened tone, and with a downcast eye, that the Legate replied:

"Ah, that is, indeed, a fearful question. A question that may well make one shudder. One of two things must happen. From the rocks and sands of the golden land, the oppressors of the world will derive new means of oppression, or from those rocks and sands, will come the instrument, which is to lift up the masses and shake the oppressors to the dust. What shall be the result? Shall new and more damning chains, for human hearts, be forged upon the gold of these sands and rocks? Or, tottering among these rocks and sands, shall poor humanity at last discover the instrument of her redemption? God alone can tell."

The Prelate was silent. Folding his hands he surveyed the pallid visage of the Legate, with a look hard to define.

"The first wind that blows intelligence from this land of gold, will convulse the world. A few years hence, and these sands, now sparkling with ore, will be white with human skeletons. Thousands and hundreds of thousands will rush to seek the glittering ore, and find a grave, in the mud by the rivers' banks; hundreds of thousands will lie unburied in the depths of trackless deserts, or in the darkness of trackless ravines; the dog and the wolf will feed well upon human hearts."

Suppressing the emotion aroused, by a portion of the Legate's remarks, the Prelate asked:

"And the thousand _barren_ acres contain incredible stores of gold?"

"Gold sufficient to affect the destiny of one-half the globe," replied the Legate: "gold, that employed in a good cause, would bless and elevate millions of the oppressed, or devoted to purposes of evil, might curse the dearest rights of half the human race."

"And it is in your power to establish the right of our Church to these lands?"

"It is. A word from me, and the thing is done."

"Pardon me," said the Prelate, slowly, and measuring every word,--"some portions of your remarks excite my curiosity. You speak of the oppressed, and of the oppressors. Now,--now,--from any lips but yours, these words, and the manner in which you use them, would sound like the doctrines of the French Socialists. What do you precisely mean by 'oppressed,'--and who, in your estimation, are the '_oppressors_?'"

The Legate rose from his seat, and fixed his eyes upon the Prelate's face:

"There are many kinds of oppressors, but the most infamous, are those who use the Church of God, as the engine of their atrocious crimes."

This remark fell like a thunderbolt.

The Prelate slowly rose from his chair, his face flushed and his chest heaving.

"Sir!" he cried in a voice of thunder.

"Nay--you need not raise your voice,--much less confront me with that frowning brow. You know me and know the position which I hold. You know that I am above your reach,--that, perchance, a word from me, uttered in the proper place, might stop your career, even at the threshold. I know you, and know that you belong to the party, which, for ages, has made our church the instrument of the most infernal wrongs--"

"Sir!" again ejaculated the Prelate.

"A party, whose noblest monument is made of the skeletons, the racks and thumbscrews of the Inquisition, and whose history can only be clearly read, save by the torchlight of St. Bartholomew--"

"This from you, sir,--"

"A party whose avowed atheism produced the French Revolution, and whose cloaked atheism is even now sowing the seeds of social hell-fire, in this country and in Europe--"

"I swear, sir--"

"Hear me, sir, for I am only here to read you a plain lesson. You, and men like you, may possibly convert the Church once more into the instrument of ferocious absolutism and the engine of colossal murder, but remember--"

He flung his coat around him, and stood erect, his face even more deathly pale than usual, his eyes shining with clear and intense light. There was a grandeur in his attitude and look.

"Remember, even in the moments of your bloodiest triumphs, that even within the Church of Rome, swayed by such as you, there is another Church of Rome, composed of men, who, when the hour strikes, will sacrifice everything to the cause of humanity and God."

These words were pronounced slowly and deliberately, with an emphasis which drove the color from the Prelate's cheek.

"Think of it, within Rome, a higher, mightier Rome,--within the order of Jesuits, a higher and mightier order of Jesuits--and whenever you, and such as you, turn, you will be met by men, who have sworn to use the Church, as the instrument of human progress, or to drive forward the movement over its ruins."

He moved to the door, but lingered for a moment on the threshold:

"It is a great way," he said, "from the turnpike to the Vatican."

This he said, and disappeared. (The Prelate had risen from the position of breaker of stone on the public road, only to use all his efforts to crush and damn the masses from whom he sprung.)

And the Prelate was now left alone, to pick up the thunderbolt which had fallen at his feet.

Half an hour after this scene, the Legate once more ascended the steps of the Astor House, his cloak wound tightly about his slender form, his face,--and perchance the emotions written there,--cast into shadow by his broad sombrero. He was crossing the hall, flaring with gas-lights, when he was aroused from his reverie by these words,--

"My lord,--"

The speaker was a man of some forty-five years, with a hard, unmeaning face, and vague gray eyes. His ungainly form,--for he was round-shouldered, knock-kneed and clumsily footed,--was clad in black, varied only by a strip of dirty white about his bull-like neck. As he stood obsequiously, hat in hand, his bald crown, scantily encircled by a few hairs of no particular color, was revealed; and also his low, broad forehead. He looked very much like an ecclesiastic, whom habits of passive obedience have converted into a human fossil.

"My lord,--"

"Pshaw, Michael, none of that nonsense here. Have you obeyed the directions which I gave you before I left the steamer to-night?"

"I have, my--" 'lord,' he was about to say, but he substituted 'your excellence!'--"Your country seat, near the city, is in good order. Everything has been prepared in anticipation of your arrival. I have just returned from it,--Maryvale, I think you call it?"

"Maryvale," replied the Legate, "Did you tell Felix to have my carriage ready for me, after midnight, at the place and the hour which I named?"

"Yes, my lord,"--and Michael bowed low.

"No more of that nonsense, I repeat it.--This is not the country for it. How did you dispose of Cain?"

"I left Cain at the country seat."

"It is well," said the Legate, and having spoken further words to Michael, in a lower tone, he dismissed him, and went silently to his chamber.

And CAIN of whom they spoke. We shall see CAIN after a while.