The Dawn of All

  (II)

  He still sat there wondering, thinking that he would let thecorridors clear a little before he went out again, and askinghimself what it was that had caused that obvious sensation duringthe judge's last words. To all outward appearance, nothing couldbe less critical than what he had seen and heard. Plainly thetrial was going against the prisoner, but there had been nodecision, no sentence. The inquisitors and the prisoner hadtalked together almost like friends discussing a not very vitalmatter. And yet the sensation had been overwhelming. . . .

  As he rose at last, still watching the emptying court, he heard atap on the door, and before he could speak, the Abbot ofWestminster rustled up the steps, in his habit and cross and goldchain. His face looked ominously strained and pale.

  "I . . . I saw you from the court, Monsignor. For God'ssake . . . sit down again an instant. Let me speak with you."

  Monsignor said nothing. He could not even now understand.

  "I must thank you for your kind offices, Monsignor. I know you didwhat you could. His Eminence sent for me after he had seen you.And . . . and I must ask you to help us again . . . at Rome."

  "Certainly--anything . . . . But----"

  "I fear it's hopeless," went on the abbot, staring out into theempty court, where an usher was moving quickly about from tableto table setting papers straight. "But any chance that there ismust be taken. . . . Will you write for us, Monsignor? or betterstill, urge the Cardinal? There is no time to lose."

  "I don't understand, my lord," said the prelate abruptly,suddenly convinced that more had happened than he knew. "I wasonly here just at the end, and . . . . what is it I can do?"

  The abbot looked at him.

  "That was the end," he said quietly. "Did you not hear the sentence?"

  Monsignor shook his head. A kind of sickness seemed to rise fromhis heart and envelop him.

  "I heard nothing," he said. "I came in during Dom Adrian'slast speech."

  The abbot licked his dry lips; there was a wondering sort ofapprehensiveness in his eyes.

  "That was the last formality," he said. "Sentence was giventwenty minutes ago."

  "And----"

  The abbot bowed his head, plucking nervously at his cross.

  "It has to go to Rome to be ratified," he said hurriedly. "Therewill be a week or two of delay. Dom Adrian refused any release.But . . . but he knows there is no hope."

  Monsignor Masterman leaned back and drew a long breath. Heunderstood now. But he perceived he must give no sign. The abbottalked on rapidly; the other caught sentences and names here andthere: he grasped that there was no real possibility of areversal of the judgment, but that yet every effort must be made.But it was only with one part of his mind, and that the mostsuperficial, that he attended to all this. Interiorly he wasoccupied wholly with facing the appalling horror that, with thelast veil dropped at last, now looked him in the eyes.

  He stood up at last, promising he would see the Cardinal thatnight; and then his resolve leapt to the birth.

  "I should like to see Dom Adrian alone," he said quietly; "and Ihad better see him at once. Can you arrange that?" The abbotstopped at the door of the gallery.

  "Yes," he said, "I think so. Will you wait here, Monsignor?"