"And our Master, Jesus Christ?" mildly interposed the Bishop.
"Yea, I serve my Master, Jesus Christ," asserted the poor priest, "but"—he was annoyed to find that the words in his heart did not rise so easily to his tongue as he would have them do. He felt the old man's eyes gravely fixed upon him.
"But?" he suggested with sedate politeness—"but?"
The young man reddened with discomfiture, but remained silent.
"I beg of you to go on," said the Bishop, suavely; "we are quite alone. I have sent for you to understand what is in your heart, and I would that you open it to me without fear."
The word stung the poor priest as the older man knew it would.
"Fear? I have no fear. What should I fear? I would say that one cannot serve two masters at one time, the one Christ, the other Antichrist. I do not see that one can bear at one and the same time the pectoral cross and the cross of Christ Jesus."
It was now the Bishop's turn to redden, but he only bit his lip for an instant and then smiled frankly. "I understand," he said, "I have heard somewhat of this kind of thing before. You poor priests claim that Christ founded no cathedrals, and that He worked with fishermen instead of Bishops. I know ye would like to see the palaces of Bishops razed to the ground that bread might be placed between the lips of the hungry, the gold of the altars melted that it might run into the purse of the poor. As your poet hath it,
"'Let Bishops' horses become beggars' chambers.
Is that not it?"