His tones were so impressive and so charged with import that the two clergymen looked quickly at each other. It seemed obvious that Llwellyn was aware of some impending discoveries. He must, they knew, be in constant touch with all that was being done in Palestine. Curiously enough, his words gave each of them a certain sense of chill, of uneasiness. There seemed to be something behind them, something of sinister suggestion, which they could not divine or formulate, but merely felt as an action upon the nerves.
It was a rare experience to sit with the greatest living authority upon a subject, and hear his views—views which it would be folly not to accept. His knowledge was so sure and so profound, a sense of power flowed from him.
But though both men felt a dim premonition of what his words might possibly convey, neither could bring himself to a deliberate question. Nor did Llwellyn appear to invite it. During the whole of their talk he had sedulously avoided any religious questions. He had dealt solely with historical aspects.
His position in the religious world was singular. His knowledge of Biblical history was one of its assets, but he was not known definitely as a believer.
His attitude had always been absolutely non-committal. He did the work he had to do without taking sides.
It had become generally understood that no definite statement of his own personal convictions was to be asked or expected from him.
The general consensus of opinion was that Sir Robert Llwellyn was not a believer in the divinity of Christ; but it was merely an opinion, and had never been confirmed by him.
There was rather a tense silence for a short time.
The Professor broke it.
"Let me show you," he said, taking a gold pencil-case from his pocket, "a little map which I published at the time of the agitation about Gordon's Tomb. I can trace the course of the city walls for you."