"Do you regret my return?" said the Legate with a smile.
"I was thinking," said Martin, and his soul was in his eyes as he spoke,—"I was thinking of—Rome!"
Godlike stepped forward, with a smile on his somber visage,—"Rome!" he echoed,—"of course, now that the dead has returned to life, the heirs need not think of dividing the estate. And you as priest of the Roman Church, as one of her lords, can think of but one disposition of your immense property It will go to the church,—to Rome!"
"To Rome!" echoed Israel Yorke. Randolph, with his face from the light, did not seem to hear a word that was spoken. And Martin Fulmer, with his finger on his lips, awaited in evident suspense, the answer of the Legate.
"To Rome!" echoed the Legate and disengaging himself from the arms of his daughter, he stood erect. His entire face changed. His nostrils quivered, his lips curled, there was a glow on his pale cheek, and an intenser fire in his eyes. He passed his hand over his forehead, and brushing back his dark hair, stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, his eyes fixed, as though he saw passing before his soul, a panorama of the future.
"Within that brutal Rome which plants its power upon human skulls, there is a higher, mightier Rome! Within that order which uses and profanes the name of Jesus, as the instrument of its frauds, there is a higher, mightier Order of Jesus! I see this mightier church,—I see this mightier Order moving onward, through the paths of the future, combating the false Rome, and trampling under foot the false Order of Jesus! Yes, in the future, I see armed for the last battle, those friends of humanity, who have sworn to use the Roman Church as the instrument of Human Progress, or to drive forward the movement over her ruins."
The effect of these words, coupled with the look and the attitude of the Legate, was electric. They were followed by a dead stillness. The spectators gazed into each other's faces, but no one ventured to break the silence.
The silence was interrupted, however, by a strange voice,—
"Lor bress you, massa, de nigga hab arribe!" It was Old Royal, who emerged from the curtains, with a broad grin on his black face,—"You know dis nigga war on de ribber in a boat, fetchin ober from Jarsey shore, a brack gemman who didn' like to trabel by de ferry boat—yah—whah! Well de nigga did it,—"
He advanced a step,—passed his hand through his white wool,—surveyed his giant-like form clad in sleek broadcloth,—showed his white teeth, and continued, with an accent and a gesticulation that words cannot describe—