"Everything, O Sanctity:" the stoic responded with a sob and a stony glare. Hadrian inquired for the number of his room; and put a similar question to the other four whom He had noted. When He had blessed all, He sent them away, and sat alone for a minute or two. Then He went to visit the big boy: who looked at Him bravely, with tearful innocent eyes. To Hadrian, it was wonderful to see this great virile virgin of nineteen. He elicited a not unusual and simple tale: a little Gaelic farm, always Catholic through all persecutions, the third of eight sons, the Vocation at twelve years of age, the mother wanted to confess to her own son. It was idyllic. It would come exquisitely in the objective bucolic manner of Theokritos. The long shapely limbs trembled before Him; the grand shoulders bowed. He gave the boy His Own white sash as a present for his mother: bade him be a good priest; and left him wallowing in happiness. Hadrian stopped in the corridor, disappointed because the lad came from a farm: He had placed him beside the sea, and had conceived a mental image of him, bare-legged, in a blue guernsey, at the rudder of a fishing-smack. But the next, the muscular hobbledehoy, really did come from a farm: his skin had the unmistakable tan of the sun on a wheat-field: and his front was bovine. So was his manner. He was so frightened by the importance of his visitor that he spoke with surliness, and in the voice of a child of thirteen. Hadrian was astonished at the discrepancy between the voice and the speaker: He made him less uncomfortable by substituting an official manner for His friendly one (which the hobbledehoy could not understand) asking his name and ordinary questions about his status and addressing him as Mr. Macleod. It was a magnificent animal, incapable of the finer sentimental emotions, likely to conceal fat in a cassock (or in corduroy, if on a farm) before the age of thirty. Privately the Pope wondered what in the world was the sign of this one's Vocation. He Himself could perceive none: but then He was inexperienced; and the youth was secretive. Hadrian tried to draw him out. Was he happy? Oh yes. Did he want anything? Oh no. To what diocese did he belong? To Devana. When did he expect the priesthood? A look of wild terror came into the grey eyes. Hadrian perceived a clue; and pressed on, repeating his inquiry. "I never will be," the creature shrilled.
"Why not?"
No answer: but a rush to the bedside and a face hidden. Hadrian took him by the shoulders, and made an act of will. "Why not?"
"I cannot:" and then the fountains of the great deep were discovered. His veneer of English peeled off: he spoke with the sibilate dental, the clipped deliberation of the Gael. No one ever had told him. He did not know till a month ago. No one knew. He had not mentioned it to his confessor, because it was not a sin. He read of it in Lehmkuhl and Togni. He would be obliged to go back and work on his uncle's farm where he had been brought up. They belonged to the Free Kirk there. He was an orphan. It was his uncle by marriage. Hadrian looked steadily into his eyes:
"Is this the truth, as though you were speaking before kings?"
"It wass the truth ass though she wass speaking pefore kings," the response came in the strongest form of asseveration known to a Gael, deliberately selected and offered by Him Who knew so little, and so much of so many little things. Hadrian comforted him; and bade him pack his bag. His secret was safe. Vatican was the place for him, until some sort of useful happy life could be planned for him.
The Pope very slowly went-up the last two flights of stairs to the top corridor. No man can come into a human tragedy without some vibrance of sentiment; and Hadrian's senses, keen by nature, were intensified by art. He entered the room of the black-haired Erse, who most certainly had kissed the blarney-stone. Och! Blessins on the Howly Forther's blessid head and might the howly saints receive Him into glory. The Pope wrote a blessing in a garish birthday book; and got out of the room as quickly as possible. That such a lovely bit of colour and litheness should be so abject on the floor! His Holiness shut-down the lid on memory; and knocked at another door.
"Come."
He entered a large bare square room with a window which displayed the City from the Quirinal to St. Peter's. He noted the bed, the chest of drawers whose top was arranged as a dressing-table, the writing table, book case, and two chairs. A bath stood under the bed; and there were two large tin cans of water against the wall. The fastidious inmate offered a chair; and remained standing in the Presence. Hadrian signed to him to be seated also.
"Dear son, you are one of the unhappy ones. Will you tell Us your grief?"