(II)
"Good evening, Monsignor. I am ashamed that I have not paid you avisit before. But we have been very busy these days."
He sat down without offering to shake hands.
The priest saw, with one of those sudden inexplicable intuitionsmore certain than any acquired knowledge, two things: first,that his having been left alone for three days had been bydeliberation and not carelessness; and second, that this visitto him only a few hours before the time of truce expired wasequally deliberate. His brain was too confused for him to drawany definite conclusion from these facts; but he made at leastone provisional decision, as swift as lightning, that he musthold his tongue.
"You have had an anxious time, I am afraid," went on the other."But so have we all. You must bear no malice, Monsignor."
The priest said nothing. He looked between his half-closedeyelids at the heavy, clean-shaven, clever face of the man whosat opposite him, the strong, capable and rather humorous mouth,his close-cut hair turning a little grey by the ears, watchingfor any sign of discomposure. But there was none at all.
The man glanced up, caught his eye, and smiled a little.
"Well, I am afraid you're not altogether pleased with us. But youmust bear in mind, Monsignor, that you've driven--" (he correctedhis phrase)--"you drove us into a corner. I regret the deaths ofthe two envoys as much as you yourself. But we were forced tokeep our word. Obviously your party did not believe us, or theywould have communicated by other means. Well, we had to prove oursincerity." (He paused). "And we shall have to prove it againto-night, it seems."
Again there was silence.
"I think you're foolish to take this line, Monsignor," went onthe other briskly--"this not speaking to me, I mean. I'm quitewilling to tell you all I know, if you care to ask me. I've notcome to bully you or to triumph over you. And after all, youknow, we might easily have treated you as an envoy, too. To bequite frank, it was I who pleaded for you. . . . Oh! not out ofany tenderness; we have got past that. You Christians have taughtus that. But I thought that so long as we kept our word we neednot go beyond it. And it's proved that I'm right. . . . Aren'tyou curious to know why?"
The priest looked at him again.
"Well, we are going to send you back after midnight. You willhave to witness the last scene, I am afraid, so that you can givea true account of it--the Emperor's death, I mean."
He paused again, waiting for an answer. Then he stood up, atlast, it seemed, pricked into impatience.
"Kindly come with me, Monsignor," he said abruptly. "I have totake you before the Council."
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