“And what is the game?” said the Jew, with impatience; “for it seems to me that you are not about to strike for freedom, like the Hungarians or the Lombards. What, then, is the prize you strive for?”
“The Catholicism of Ireland, and then of England, the subjugation of the haughtiest rebel to the Faith, the only one whose disaffection menaces our Holy Church; for the Lutheranism of the German is scarce worth the name of enemy. England once Catholic, the world is our own!”
The enthusiasm of his manner, and the excited tones of his round, full voice seemed to check the Jew, whose cold, sarcastic features were turned towards the priest with an expression of wonderment.
“Let us come back from all this speculation to matter of plain fact,” said Morlache, after a long pause. “What securities are offered for the repayment of this sum? for, although the theme be full of interest to you, to me it has but the character of a commercial enterprise.”
“But it ought not,” said D'Esmonde, passionately. “The downfall of the tyranny of England is your cause as much as ours. What Genoa and Venice were in times past, they may become again. The supremacy of the seas once wrested from that haughty power, the long-slumbering energies of Southern Europe will awaken, the great trading communities of the Levant will resume their ancient place, and the rich argosies of the East once more will float over the waters of the tideless sea.”
“Not in our time, Abbe, not in our time,” said the Jew, smiling.
“But are we only to build for ourselves?” said D'Esmonde. “Was it thus your own great forefathers raised the glorious Temple?”
The allusion called up but a cold sneer on the Israelite's dark countenance, and D'Esmonde knew better than to repeat a blow which showed itself to be powerless.
A tap at the door here broke in upon the colloquy, and Jekyl's voice was heard on the outside.
“Say you are engaged, that you cannot admit him,” whispered D'Esmonde. “I do not wish that he should see me here.”