"Only one; that is well—"
"And that obstacle is not so much the memory of the American Past, which some of these foolish Americans still consider holy—not so much the memory of Penn the Quaker; Calvert the Catholic, who planted their silly dogma of Brotherly love on the Delaware and St. Mary's, in the early dawn of this country,—not so much the Declaration of Independence, nor the blood-marks which wrote its principles, on the soil from Bunker Hill to Savannah, from Brandywine to Yorktown,—not so much the history of the sixty-eight years, which in the American Republic, have shown a growth, an enterprise, a development never witnessed on God's earth before,—not so much all this, as the single obstacle which I now lay on the table before you."
And from the breast of his coat he drew forth a small, thin volume, which he laid upon the table:
"This!" cried the Prelate, as though a bomb-shell had burst beneath his chair; "This! Why this is the four Gospels according to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John!"
"Precisely. And Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, those simple fellows are the very ones whom we have most to fear."
"But I have driven this book from the Common Schools!" cried the Prelate, rather testily.
"Have you driven it from the home?" quietly asked the Legate.
The Prelate absently toyed with his cross, but did not answer.
"Can you drive it from the home?" asked the Legate.
The Prelate gazed at the portrait of Cardinal Dubois, and then at Richelieu's, but did not reply.