A voice came out of the gloom, an intense voice, reciting some formula.
George did not take the Latin easily from an Italian tongue: he found himself translating, Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontificality?
"Reverend?" he thought. Why not "Most Eminent"? He instantly turned to the bishop, with another question on his tongue. The bishop was kneeling behind him. The crowd also was kneeling. Why in the world did not he kneel too? Why should he hesitate for a moment? He faced round once more, a single black figure with an alert weary white face, alone and erect in the splendour of violet. He glanced again at the canopies.
It was on him, on him, that all eyes were. Why did he not kneel?
Again the voice of the Cardinal-Archdeacon intoned, "Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontificality?"
There was no mistake. The awful tremendous question was addressed to him.
A murmur from the bishop prompted him, "The response is Volo—or Nolo."
The surging in his temples, the booming in his ears, miraculously ceased. He took one long slow breath: crossed right hand over left upon his breast: became like a piece of a pageant; and responded "I will."
Two hands clapped, and the canopies came down rustling and flapping. The Sacred College struggled to its feet, as God's Vicegerent passed to the rear of the high altar.
They offered Him three suits of pontifical white, large, medium, and small. The large was too large: the small, too small: but the medium would serve for the present. He began to undress, among the throng of assistants, with the noncurance of one accustomed to swim in Sandford Lasher. He forbade all help, refusing to be touched. When He had assumed the white hosen, cassock, sash, rochet, cape, and cap, the crimson shoes and stole, the great new gold Ring of The Fisherman, He went through His former pockets leaving nothing behind: tucked His handkerchief into His left sleeve; and asked for the Bishop of Caerleon. While masters-of-ceremonies and the Augustinian sacristan hurried to prepare altars for the episcopal consecration of the Pope, Dr. Talacryn was admitted to the Apostolic presence. He made obeisance: the moment was too enormous for words, but eyes spoke.