“What did you say?”
“Are you quite sure the procession will not be too much for you? The sun is very hot.”
“What does the sun matter?”
Montanelli spoke in a cold, measured voice, and the priest again fancied that he must have given offence.
“Forgive me, Your Eminence. I thought you seemed unwell.”
Montanelli rose without answering. He paused a moment on the upper step of the throne, and asked in the same measured way:
“What is that?”
The long train of his mantle swept down over the steps and lay spread out on the chancel-floor, and he was pointing to a fiery stain on the white satin.
“It's only the sunlight shining through a coloured window, Your Eminence.”
“The sunlight? Is it so red?”