Two masters-of-ceremonies appeared in attendance upon Cardinal-Archdeacon Macca and Cardinal-Deacon Berstein. As George and his companion approached them, they turned and retraced their steps. George wished them anywhere but there, impeding him when he ought to be running-off to the service of his diocesan. They completely blocked the path as they went before him with superb unconcern. "How stiff, how antipathetic the elder one looks!" he whispered with acerbity.
"Sh-h-h!" the bishop sibilated.
The door of the Xystine Chapel was open. Conclavists from all quarters hurried towards it. George and his friend found themselves impelled through the portals. Beyond the delicate marble screen, gleamed the six steady flamelets of the candles on the altar. The protentous figures in the Doom appeared to writhe.
Inside the screen Macca and Berstein went; and paused; and faced the crowd which followed them.
George was looking about him, vehemently alert. He had felt like this three times in his life before, at the exsequies of the Queen of England, at the incoronation of the King of England, at the foot of the first grave which had opened in his path through life. It was the feeling of the cognoscente who is permitted, during sixty seconds, to do his own pleasure in a treasure-chest filled to the brim with inestimable intagliate gems. It was the feeling of absolute acquisitiveness. Here was history in the making; and he was in the front rank of the spectators. There was no time to think of effects. This was a case of causes; and every detail must be seized and stored. Selection could come later: appreciation afterwards: but now he must collect. First, his glance flashed upward to the little square canopies: they all were in position. Then, to the occupants of the five and fifty thrones: they were sitting as still as the conscript-fathers sat in their curule chairs, turned-to and watching the crowd which oozed through the screen-gates. Unconsciously, George was urged further and further in. His demeanour was abstrusely unemotional: he continued violently absorbent of the spectacle. Presently, he whispered to the bishop, "What is it? What is happening?"
"I think God has given us a Pope."
"Oh! Whom?"
"Wait. We shall know in a minute."
The silence, the stillness, the dim light, where motionless forms of cardinals curved like the frozen crests of waves carven in white jade and old ivory on a sea of amethyst, were more than marvellous.