l that. But it is not that which makes you unhappy?"

"No," cried the priest suddenly and impulsively, "it is not
that. I wish to God it were! I wish to God my memory would
leave me again!"

"Quietly, please."

But the other paid no attention.

"It is . . . it is the world I am living in--this brutal
world.... Father, help me."

The monk drew a breath and leaned back, and his movement had the
effect of a call for silence. Neither spoke for a moment.

Then----

"Just tell me quite simply, from the beginning," said the monk.

(VI)

It was nearly half an hour later that Monsignor ended, and leaned
back, at once exhausted and excited. He had said it all--he had
said even more than he had previously formulated to himself. Now
and then, as he paused, the monk with a word or two, or a
strangely compelling look, had soothed or encouraged him. And he
had told the whole thing--the sense that there was no longer any
escape from Christianity, that it had dominated the world, and
that it was hateful and tyrannical in its very essence. He
confessed that logic was against him, that a wholly Christian
society must protect itself, that he saw no way of evading the
consequences that he had witnessed; and yet that his entire moral
sense revolted against the arguments of his head. It seemed to
him, he said in effect, as if he were held in a grip which
outraged his whole sentiment; as if the universe itself were in a
conspiracy against him. For there was wanting, he said, exactly
that which was most characteristic of Christianity, exactly that
which made it divine--a heavenly patience and readiness to
suffer. The cross had been dropped by the Church, he said, and
shouldered by the world.

The monk sat silent a moment or two, as motionless as he had been
at the beginning. Monsignor perceived by now, even through his
fierce agitation, that this man never moved except for a purpose;
he made no gestures when he spoke; he turned his head or lifted
his eyes only when it was necessary. Then the monk's voice began
again, level and unemotional:

* * * * *

"A great deal of what you say, Monsignor, is merely the effect of
a nervous strain. A nervous strain means that the emotional or
the receptive faculties gain an undue influence over the
reasonable intelligence. You admit that the logic is flawless,
yet that fact does not reassure you, as it would if you were in a
normal condition."

"But----"

"Wait, please, t