It was five minutes to four as we drew up at the churchyard gate. A double row of eager onlookers lined the path from lychgate to porch. I sprang from the carriage and pa.s.sed up between them. Our gardener had a good front place near the door. I stopped.

'Are they waiting still, Byles?' I asked, simply to gain time, for of course I knew they were by the waiting crowd's attentive att.i.tude.

'Waiting, sir? No, no, sir; why, it must be over by now.'

'Over! Then Mr Charrington's come?'

To the minute, sir; must have missed you somehow, and I say, sir,' lowering his voice, 'I never see Mr John the least bit so afore, but my opinion is he's been drinking pretty free. His clothes was all dusty and his face like a sheet. I tell you I didn't like the looks of him at all, and the folks inside are saying all sorts of things. You'll see, something's gone very wrong with Mr John, and he's tried liquor. He looked like a ghost, and in he went with his eyes straight before him, with never a look or a word for none of us: him that was always such a gentleman!'

I had never heard Byles make so long a speech. The crowd in the churchyard were talking in whispers and getting ready rice and slippers to throw at the bride and bridegroom. The ringers were ready with their hands on the ropes to ring out the merry peal as the bride and bride-groom should come out.

A murmur from the church announced them; out they came. Byles was right. John Charrington did not look himself. There was dust on his coat, his hair was disarranged. He seemed to have been in some row, for there was a black mark above his eyebrow. He was deathly pale. But his pallor was not greater than that of the bride, who might have been carved in ivory--dress, veil, orange blossoms, face and all.

As they pa.s.sed out the ringers stooped--there were six of them--and then, on the ears expecting the gay wedding peal, came the slow tolling of the pa.s.sing bell.

A thrill of horror at so foolish a jest from the ringers pa.s.sed through us all. But the ringers themselves dropped the ropes and fled like rabbits out into the sunlight. The bride shuddered, and grey shadows came about her mouth, but the bridegroom led her on down the path where the people stood with the handfuls of rice; but the handfuls were never thrown, and the wedding bells never rang. In vain the ringers were urged to remedy their mistake: they protested with many whispered expletives that they would see themselves further first.

In a hush like the hush in the chamber of death the bridal pair pa.s.sed into their carriage and its door slammed behind them.

Then the tongues were loosed. A babel of anger, wonder, conjecture from the guests and the spectators.

'If I'd seen his condition, sir,' said old Forster to me as we drove off, 'I would have stretched him on the floor of the church, sir, by heaven I would, before I'd have let him marry my daughter!'

Then he put his head out of the window.

'Drive like h.e.l.l,' he cried to the coachman; 'don't spare the horses.'

He was obeyed. We pa.s.sed the bride's carriage. I forbore to look at it, and old Forster turned his head away and swore. We reached home before it.

We stood in the doorway, in the blazing afternoon sun, and in about half a minute we heard wheels crunching the gravel. When the carriage stopped in front of the steps old Forster and I ran down.

'Great heaven, the carriage is empty! And yet---'

I had the door open in a minute, and this is what I saw . . .

No sign of John Charrington; and of May, his wife, only a huddled heap of white satin lying half on the floor of the carriage and half on the seat.

'I drove straight here, sir,' said the coachman, as the bride's father lifted her out; 'and I'll swear no one got out of the carriage.'

We carried her into the house in her bridal dress and drew back her veil. I saw her face. Shall I ever forget it? White, white and drawn with agony and horror, bearing such a look of terror as I have never seen since except in dreams. And her hair, her radiant blonde hair, I tell you it was white like snow.

As we stood, her father and I, half mad with the horror and mystery of it, a boy came up the avenue--a telegraph boy. They brought the orange envelope to me. I tore it open.

Mr Charrington was thrown from the dogcart on his way to the station at half past one. Killed on the spot!

And he was married to May Forster in our parish church at half past three, in presence of half the parish.

'I shall be married, dead, or alive!'

What had pa.s.sed in that carriage on the homeward drive? No one knows--no one will ever know. Oh, May! oh, my dear!

Before a week was over they laid her beside her husband in our little churchyard on the thyme-covered hill--the churchyard where they had kept their love-trysts.

Thus was accomplished John Charrington's wedding.

Roger Pater: De Profundis

from MYSTIC VOICES Burns, Oates & Washbourne, 1923 ***

It was some little time before the subject of the old priest's experiences cropped up again, and I did not like to refer to it deliberately for fear of trying his patience, and so making him avoid the matter entirely. One day, however, he mentioned it I himself, and that gave me my opportunity.

'I want to ask you something about these events,' I told him. 'Have you yourself any theory to account for them at all?'

'Distinguo,' said he, after a short pause; 'without committing myself to a theory to fit every case, they do seem to me to fall into several cla.s.ses.

'In one category I should place those "voices" which warn me of events that have happened quite recently, or are actually happening at the moment, but a long distance away; such as the ones that told me of the deaths of my father and brother. Cases of this kind may, perhaps, be due to thought transference, or telepathy; as you yourself suggested, if you recollect, when I first told you of those instances.

'A second type are the "voices" which order me to go to some place or do some special thing, which I should probably have avoided if left to myself; and on these I have my own opinion, but, if you do not mind, I would rather keep it to myself.

'A third cla.s.s are those experienced in certain places or in connection with certain articles; such as the story I told you of the Persecution Chalice, or of_my hearing the last Ma.s.s of Father Philip Rivers the martyr. Such as these would fall into line with the cases we often hear of haunted houses. You know the modern theory of the subject, of course?'

'I'm not at all sure that I do,' I answered, 'but, in any case, I should like you to explain it to me, and how it bears upon your own experiences.'

'Oh, well,' he replied, 'the idea is just this; that a place or a thing, such as a weapon or article of furniture - almost anything, in fact, which has played a part in events that aroused very intense emotional activity on the part of those who enacted them - becomes itself saturated, as it were, with the emotions involved. So much so, in fact, that it can influence people of exceptional sympathetic powers, and enable them to perceive the original events, more or less perfectly, as if they were re-enacted before them. Thus, in some cases, the person will see the occurrence as if taking place before his eyes. In my case, I hear the words or sounds, just as if they were present on the original occasion, possibly some centuries before.'

'That is a new idea to me,' I said, 'but it doesn't seem impossible. Hitherto the only theory of haunting which ever seemed at all plausible to me was the old-fashioned one that the spirit of a guilty person was sometimes compelled, as part of its purgatory, to frequent the scene of its crime, and there re-enact the events which it now detested. Much in the same way as we hear of a murderer being irresistibly drawn to revisit the spot where he slew his victim, in spite of the evident danger he runs of arousing suspicion thereby.'

'I see no reason why both theories should not be true,' he answered; 'some cases would demand one explanation, some another. In fact, if my experiences go to prove anything, they show that the theory you call "old-fashioned" is at least as likely to be true as the one I outlined for you just now.'

'I scent another story,' I cried, 'for none of those you have told me, as yet, suggested a soul in purgatory as the chief agent in the "direct speech".'

'If it comes to that,' said he, with a smile, 'I suppose I could give you half a dozen instances where such an explanation seems the most obvious and natural one. But, before we leave the question of explanations, is there anything else you would like to ask me about the subject?'

'Well, yes,' said I, with some hesitation, 'but if you think me impertinent or too inquisitive, please do not hesitate to say so. I would far sooner drop the subject altogether, than run any risk of hurting your feelings.'

'My dear boy,' said the old priest, with more emotion than I had seen him exhibit hitherto, 'please, please do not talk to me like that. G.o.d knows I am a poor enough specimen of what a priest should be, but heaven forbid that I should allow my feelings to block the way whereby you, or I, or any man, may come to understand the manner of his dealings with his creatures. I may fail, indeed I must fail to some degree, in making clear the truth in these matters; just as everyone who tries to express himself always fails to convey things to others as perfectly as he himself perceives them. But that is quite another thing from hiding the light that G.o.d reveals to me, in order to save my feelings from possible laceration.'

'I am sorry, sir,' said I, 'I spoke foolishly; but I need not a.s.sure you that no such suggestion was intended by me, for a moment.'

'I know, I know,' he answered quickly, 'but the point is one on which I feel strongly, more strongly than most men, perhaps; and you will humour an old man in it, will you not? But go on and ask the question which you had in mind.'

'Well, sir,' I said rather slowly, for his gentle outburst had distracted me from what I meant to say, 'the point I wished to put to you was this. With regard to these experiences of yours, does their occurrence, their frequency, or intensity, coincide with any special state, or set of circ.u.mstances, in yourself? I mean such things as physical health, spiritual fervour, intellectual activity or their opposites.'

'Really, I don't know that I ever a.n.a.lyzed them in that way,' he answered. 'But, speaking generally, I should say that in the great majority of cases I have been in perfect health at the time, and certainly up to my normal standard of intellectual activity. As regards the spiritual atmosphere on such occasions, I have often remarked that events of this kind always seem to take place when my state of soul is absolutely calm and natural, and, consequently, when my sense perception and judgement are least likely to be deceived.'

'Thank you, sir,' I said! 'that seems to me an important point, since for anyone who knows you personally it disposes of the idea that the whole thing may be self-deception. But you spoke just now of an instance, or possibly of half a dozen instances, where the "voice" you heard seemed to be that of a soul in purgatory. Would you mind telling me of such a case?'

'I will do so with pleasure,' said he, 'and the story I will tell you has this further interest, that it is free from an objection you made once before; I mean, that so many of these events seem purposeless. In this case, as you will see in the sequel, what I heard was very much to the point.

'You may remember my telling you of an Austrian priest, a great friend of mine, to whose home I was travelling when I was obliged to undertake an extraordinary "sick call"; and how I next met my friend years later in Rome?' I nodded my acquiescence, and he continued, 'Well, it was then that the event took place of which I propose to tell you. By that time my friend had become the head of one of the ecclesiastical colleges m Rome, and, at the personal request of the Austrian Emperor he had been made a t.i.tular archbishop. As he was now a penonaggio distincto, I felt a little doubtful about intruding on him, but he was so genuinely pleased when I did call that my fears all vanished, and we soon became as intimate as ever.

'One afternoon I had arranged to call for him soon after lunch, so that we might take a long walk together; but on my arrival he met me with apologies.

'"I am sorry to upset our plan," he said, "but this morning I received a note from my sister, begging me to go and see her at once. She is a nun in one of the strictly enclosed convents here in Rome, and was solemnly professed only a few weeks ago, just before you came out from England. You have never met her, she is the youngest of the family, and a good many years my junior." 'Of course I said that the postponement of our excursion did not matter in the least, and proposed that I should walk with him to the convent. "I will wait in the church, during your interview," I said, "and afterwards we can take a stroll on the Pincio, if you are not kept too long." He fell in with the proposal at once, and we set out for the convent, which was quite at the other side of the city, fully half an hour's walk from the college. 'On our arrival the out-sister conducted us both to the parlour, when I explained that I would wait in the church, while the archbishop spoke with his sister. The nun then said that she was the sacristan, and would take me to the church through the sacristy, as that was the shortest way. Accordingly, we left the archbishop, and, crossing the pa.s.sage, pa.s.sed through a doorway inscribed "Sagrestia".

"'But what a large, handsome sacristy," I exclaimed in Italian, for I had not expected anything on such a big scale. "Si, Signore," answered the nun, evidently pleased at my surprise; and she explained how, some years before, the nuns had converted the upper portion of one transept into a new choir for themselves, and the lower half had then become the sacristy. "See," she added, "the old pavement is still here," and she pointed to a number of incised slabs in the floor which marked the site of old interments. Then she opened another door and I pa.s.sed into the church, asking her to let me know when the archbishop was ready.

'The building was a typical Roman church of the seventeenth century; a nave with small side chapels off it, but no aisles, a low dome at the crossing of nave and transepts, and a shallow apsidal sanctuary. A short inspection of the interior revealed nothing of special interest, so I soon settled down in a quiet corner of the transept opposite the sacristy door and said a few prayers. After some minutes I rose from my knees and sat down on a bench at the side, chancing as I did so to glance at the windows of the nuns' choir, high up in the opposite transept.

'The windows were filled with gla.s.s, frosted in some way to prevent one seeing through, but the strong light behind cast the shadow of a kneeling nun across the window as she prayed with her face towards the Blessed Sacrament, which was reserved on the High Altar of the church below. Vaguely I wondered who she was and for what she was praying, and then the figure rose and moved to one side. The silhouette was in profile now, so evidently she was kneeling before some shrine or picture which stood in the ch.o.r.etto itself, at the side of the window.

'I think I have mentioned that, in some cases, when the "direct speech" comes to me it is heralded by a kind of premonition in myself. Gradually I become less and less perceptive of the things around me, a feeling of bodily fatigue and a sense of muscular la.s.situde grows upon me, while my mind becomes unusually alert. Then, out of this - physical insulation, may I call it? - a kind of sympathetic union seems to arise between myself and the unknown person, and, finally, the "direct speech" is heard. It was so in this case, as I gazed up at the figure of the nun who knelt and prayed before the shrine. Then, as from sheer fatigue I closed my eyes, abruptly in my ears came the voice of someone speaking, speaking rapidly, in Italian, with piteous tense accents, as if in extreme pain and distress.

'"No, no, no - do not ask me to pray for you. It is all wrong, I say; terribly wrong. A saint! My G.o.d, it is I who need your prayers. Oh, why do not they pray for me, that I may rest in peace? O my G.o.d, I am punished indeed. Punished for my folly, my pretences, my hypocrisy. Oh, do hot pray to me, pray for me. Pray, pray for me, the wretchedness of sinners. Oh, pray for me, that G.o.d may grant me rest."

'This went on for some minutes, the distress of the speaker becoming more intense, as if her protests went unheeded by those to whom she spoke. Then, all at once, came silence, and, opening my eyes, I looked up at the tribune. For a moment the shadow of the nun's figure fell across the window, and then she moved away, her prayers completed, and I heard no more.

'With a sense of great relief I came back to myself again, and for some minutes sat pondering over what I had heard. What could it all mean? Something was wrong inside the convent, I felt certain, but before I had got my thoughts clear, the Sister Sacristan returned and told me that the archbishop had left the parlour, and was waiting for me in the vestibule.

'I got up at once, and joining my companion, we left the convent together. My mind was still full of the words I had heard, and of speculation about their meaning, and we must have walked a considerable distance without either of us speaking. All at once it struck me that I was neglecting my friend, and I glanced towards him, with some trifle of small talk on my lips- To my surprise his face was set and stern, with tense lips and frowning eyes, and, as I thought, an expression half puzzled and half angry. At this the trifle I had meant to say fled from my mind, and instead of it I blurted out abruptly: '"Something is wrong, then, in the convent, as I fancied?" With a look of surprise the archbishop turned his gaze full upon me, and I felt that I had given myself away.

'"Explain yourself, friend Philip," he said at length.

'"Oh, well!" I answered, as lightly as I was able, "it is easy to see that something has upset you, and in any case your sister would not have sent you such an urgent message, unless she had some reason for it."

'"That is not good enough, my friend," he answered gently. "You spoke as if my expression of annoyance had confirmed a suspicion of your own. There is something behind those words of yours, Philip; something which it may be important for me to know. See now, I will be quite frank with you. I left the convent, disturbed and mystified by something which had just been said to me, and your first words show that you too have been affected in the same way. My dear Philip, you must tell me the cause of your anxiety, and then, in my turn, I will tell you what is troubling me."

'"Well, if you must know," I said, 'while you were in the convent, I went into the church, and, after a few prayers, I sat down and fell into a reverie"; and then I told him all I have just told you, and how the words I heard had left me worried and anxious. The archbishop listened to my story in silence, and I was half afraid he would laugh at me, but at its close he seemed more serious than ever.

'"It is a strange experience," he said, when I had finished, "I don't know that I envy you your curious faculty. But now I must tell you what is troubling me. When you left me to go to the church I waited in the parlour; a plain bare room with a double grille across the centre, and two or three chairs on either side of it. I sat down, and after a little while my sister came in, accompanied by one of the elder nuns - you know their rule forbids them to see a visitor alone. We talked for some time in Italian, for my sister mentioned that the other did not understand German well, but nothing was mentioned which explained why she had sent for me, and I hesitated to ask her in the presence of her companion. It struck me, however, that she seemed ill at ease, and, luckily, an opportunity arose which gave me a few words with her alone.

'"I had inquired after the Reverend Mother, and the elder nun asked if I would like to see her. I said 'Yes,' and she rose and went out, saying she would go and call her to the parlour. Immediately we were alone my sister said to me, 'Sigismund, for G.o.d's sake go to the Holy Father and get permission to make a visitation of the convent.' Astonished at her vehemence I answered, 'My dear sister, whatever is the matter?' 'I cannot tell you,' she replied, 'for I am sworn to secrecy; but if you make a visitation I think you may find out for yourself.'

'"Just at that moment the other nun returned with the Reverend Mother, so I could not ask her any more questions. You will imagine I felt in no mood for further conversation, so I simply told the Superioress that I did not wish to leave without seeing her, and after a few minutes' conversation I gave them my blessing and left. Now my sister is a strong-minded woman, and I am convinced she would not have spoken as she did without good reason; and your curious experience makes me still more determined to look into the matter carefully."

'He stopped speaking, and we walked on in silence for some little time, and then I asked him, "How do you propose to proceed in the affair?"

'"Well," he answered, "I shall begin by going to the Vicariate, where I have a friend who is one of the secretaries to the Cardinal Vicar, and who has charge of the archives. If there is anything out of the common in the past history of the convent, he will be able to tell me. Then I shall ask for an audience with the Cardinal Vicar himself, and tell him the whole story. I have very little doubt that he will empower me to enter the enclosure and inspect the convent as his deputy, or else will appoint some discreet person to do so. If he is not prepared to take any action at all, I shall go to the Holy Father himself, and ask his permission to make a visitation in person. In the interval I will ask you to keep the whole affair a secret. I shall probably know more in a day or two, and then I will tell you how I have got on." By this time we had reached the college again, and I said good-bye at the door, as the archbishop was evidently disinclined for further conversation.

'During the next few days I was busy renewing my acquaintance with various favourite spots in the Eternal City, and in that congenial occupation the incident at the convent was forgotten for the time. In fact, it must have been almost a week later that, on returning to my lodgings one evening, about the hour of the Ave Maria, I found one of the archbishop's cards on my table, with the words "Please come and see me at once", written on it in English. Accordingly I put on my hat again, walked round to the college, and asked the porter to let the archbishop know that I had come.

'"But his Excellency is expecting you, my Father," replied the man; "he told me to say, when you came, that he would be in his private study, and begged you would come up to him." I knew the way, so I thanked the porter and went upstairs, where I found the archbishop walking up and down his room as if waiting impatiently.

'"Good," he exclaimed, as I entered, "I was getting afraid you might not come at all tonight; and I want your help, Philip."

'Of course I said I was entirely at his disposal, and asked how his inquiries had prospered.

'"Sit down, and I will tell you all about it," he answered, and when we were both seated he continued.

'"I went to see my friend at the Vicariate that very evening, after you had left me, and told him exactly what had happened, including your own experience." I suppose I changed countenance at this, for he added quickly, "Don't be annoyed with me, Philip, he is man of great piety and remarkable discretion, and he will not repeat the story without your express permission.

'"Well, at the time he had nothing to tell me about the convent, but he promised to make a search in the archives, and see if there was anything there which seemed likely to help us; and then, on the Friday following, he sent for me. This time he had quite a dossier of papers, and we went through them together. Some of them dated from years back, and most were merely formal doc.u.ments relating to the election and approval of superiors, dispensations, appointments of confessors, and other ordinary routine business. I was beginning to despair of finding anything that would help us, when we turned up a doc.u.ment, dated nearly twenty years ago, and headed, 'In the matter of the late Donna Anastasia Fulloni, formerly Superioress, etc., and a Pet.i.tion for the admission of a Cause of Beatification - Report.'

'"It proved to be a copy of a long formal report prepared for the Congregation of Rites, to whom the nuns had sent in a pet.i.tion asking for the usual commission of inquiry into the heroic sanct.i.ty of their Superioress, then lately dead, which is the first preliminary step in a cause of canonization.

'"The whole thing was really pitiful reading, for the evidence of the chaplain to the convent and of the medical man who attended the nun on her deathbed all went to show that the poor woman, far from being a saint, was a weak-minded creature, whose vanity had led her to practise a whole series of deceptions in order to create the impression that she was favoured with visions, ecstasies, and other divine privileges. On her deathbed she had confessed the truth, and commissioned her confessor to let the real facts be known, should this become necessary. Unfortunately, he took no action in the matter, and in the interval quite a little cultus began to grow up at her grave in the south transept of the church, attached to the convent. Then, finally, the nuns drew up and sent in the pet.i.tion of which I told you. Of course, after this report, the Sacred Congregation dismissed the pet.i.tion, and prohibited any further cultus. The whole incident was considered closed, and in fact it had been quite forgotten, until my visit led to the disinterring of the report I have mentioned.

'"There was nothing else of any importance among the papers, but my friend promised to see the Cardinal Vicar and let me know what he decided; then, early on the Monday, I got a note ordering me to call at the Vicariate at noon to see the Cardinal himself.

'"When I got there I found my friend with his Eminence, who told me that he had heard the whole story, and wished me to make a visitation of the convent as his deputy. Of course I said that I would gladly undertake the task, and then he asked me to name some discreet priest whom I should like to have with me. I suggested your name, which he accepted at once, saying that he had met you himself; and then, as the third member of the commission he appointed his secretary the archivist, adding that he knew him to be a friend of my own. Today I received the doc.u.ment of authorization for the three of us to enter the enclosure, and hold a formal visitation of the convent as agents of the Cardinal Vicar; and the nuns have notice to expect us tomorrow about ten o'clock."

'I was not displeased to have an opportunity of solving the mystery, if there were one, so I promised to join the archbishop and his friend at the college in good time next morning, and soon afterwards went back to my lodgings.

'Next day I reached the college about nine o'clock, and found the archbishop with his friend from the Vicariate, to whom he introduced me. The archivist was an Italian priest, about sixty years old, with white hair, and a wonderful smile that reminded me of the portraits of St Philip Neri. We talked for some little time, and got on together so well that, when the carriage was announced, I felt as if I had known him for years.

'On arriving at the convent the archbishop produced his mandate, and the three of us were admitted into the enclosure and conducted to the chapter-room which opened off the main cloister. Here we found the whole community waiting for us, some eighteen choir-nuns and nine or ten lay-sisters. On being asked if all were present the Superioress answered that one sick nun was absent in the infirmary, and on further inquiry this one proved to be the sister of the archbishop. The archivist then explained that we had been sent by the Cardinal Vicar to hold a visitation as his deputies; and that the three of us together would interview each of the nuns in turn.

'The community then retired, returning one by one to be interrogated by the archbishop. Most of them declared that everything about the convent was quite satisfactory, though some points of detail were mentioned; but we heard nothing to confirm our suspicion of an illicit cultus. When all had been seen, we had a few minutes' private talk, and agreed to go through the convent first on our tour of inspection, and finally to visit the infirmary and interview the archbishop's sister, whose sickness seemed curiously inopportune.

'The Reverend Mother and four of the nuns then conducted us round the cloister and ground-floor rooms, and afterwards to the choir chapel upstairs. This chapel, you will remember, was really the upper portion of one transept of the church, but the nuns had re-decorated the walls in typical Roman style, with great panels of red silk damask, framed in gilded mouldings. All this time, I ought to say, I had felt in perfect health, and no suspicion of what was to happen had crossed my mind. But the moment we entered the chapel the physical oppression which I had felt in the convent church on my previous visit returned with overwhelming force.

'Laying my hand on the archbishop's arm, I told him in a whisper what was the matter, and he hurried me forward to a chair which stood close to the large window that opened into the church. I sank into the chair, for I was almost fainting, but after a minute or so I felt stronger and opened my eyes. Opposite to me there was a prie-dieu, placed so that anyone kneeling on it would face not towards the altar in the church beneath, but towards the side wall of the chapel.

'"It was there the nun I saw was kneeling, Sigismund," I whispered, "ask the Reverend Mother to take down that red silk panel."

'The archbishop beckoned the Superioress forward, and made the request I had suggested.

'"But it is not meant to be removed," the nun expostulated volubly, but with evident nervousness. "How is one to take it down without damaging it?"

'The archbishop turned to the group standing at the entrance of the chapel. "Which is the sacristan?" he asked, and one of the nuns came forward.

'"Remove this," he ordered, pointing to the wall beyond the prie-dieu. The nun hesitated a moment, but a stern look from the archbishop decided her, and going up to the wall she kneeled down, as if to get at something near the floor. There was a click, as if a lock were turned, and the tall silk panel swung outwards like a door. As it did so a wild shriek of laughter rang through the chapel. It was the Superioress, whose self-control had suddenly failed her, and she burst into violent hysterics.

'The other nuns ran forward quickly, but the archbishop's voice rang out in a tone of command. "Let the Sub-prioress and sacristan stay here, and the rest of you take your Prioress to her room. I will send for anyone I want, when I am ready."

'We waited before the open panel, while the shrieks of hysterical laughter grew fainter, and finally died away in the distance, and then the archbishop turned to me.

'"Do you feel equal to moving now, Philip?" he asked.

'"Certainly," I said, "the faintness has pa.s.sed away"; and in fact I felt my normal self once more.