He glanced furtively at Father Ripon and then sank into a chair by the bedside.
The clergyman rose and dressed hastily. "We will speak of this in the library," he said, controlling himself by a tremendous effort. "Meanwhile——"
He took some sal volatile from his dressing-case, gave some to his host, and drank some also.
As they went down-stairs a brilliant sun streamed into the great hall. The world outside was bright and frost-bound.
The bell of the private chapel was tolling for matins.
The sound struck on both their brains very strangely. Sir Michael shuddered and grew ashen grey. Ripon recovered himself first.
He placed his arm in his host's and turned towards the passage which led to the chapel.
"Come, my friend," he said in low, sweet tones, "come to the altar. Let us pray together for Christendom. Peace waits us. Say the creed with me, for God will not desert us."
They passed into the vaulted chapel with the seven dim lamps burning before the altar, and knelt down in the chancel stalls. Some of the servants came in and then the chaplain began the confession.
The stately monotone went on, echoing through the damp breath of the morning.