"I understand all that," he said softly. "You wish to die, is it not
so?—and be at peace. There are many who wish that. But we must suffer
first. Et pati et mori. Father Franklin, there must be no faltering."
There was a long silence.
The news was too stunning to convey anything to the priest but a sense of horrible shock. The thought had simply never entered his mind that he, a man under forty, should be considered eligible to succeed this wise, patient old prelate. As for the honour—Percy was past that now, even had he thought of it. There was but one view before him—of a long and intolerable journey, on a road that went uphill, to be traversed with a burden on his shoulders that he could not support.
Yet he recognised its inevitability. The fact was announced to him as indisputable; it was to be; there was nothing to be said. But it was as if one more gulf had opened, and he stared into it with a dull, sick horror, incapable of expression.
The Cardinal first broke the silence.
"Father Franklin," he said, "I have seen to-day a picture of Felsenburgh. Do you know whom I at first took it for?"
Percy smiled listlessly.
"Yes, father, I took it for you. Now, what do you make of that?"
"I don't understand, Eminence."
"Why—" He broke off, suddenly changing the subject.
"There was a murder in the City to-day," he said. "A Catholic stabbed a blasphemer."
Percy glanced at him again.
