"I do—for the reasons I have given."
The Bishop's eyes sparkled.
"As to my course," he said, dryly, "Letters of Request will be sent at once to the Court of Arches preferring charges of heretical teaching and unauthorized services against yourself and two other clergy. I shall be represented by so-and-so." He named the lawyers.
They stood, exchanging a few technical informations of this kind for a few minutes. Then Meynell took up his hat. The Bishop hesitated a moment, then held out his hand.
Meynell grasped it, and suddenly stooped and kissed the episcopal ring.
"I am an old man"—said the Bishop brokenly—"and a weary one. I pray God that He will give me strength to bear this burden that is laid upon me."
Meynell went away, with bowed head. The Bishop was left alone. He moved to the window and stood looking out. Across the green of the quadrangle rose the noble mass of the Cathedral. His lips moved in prayer; but all the time it was as though he saw beside the visible structure—its ordered beauty, its proud and cherished antiquity—a ruined phantom of the great church, roofless and fissured, its sacred places open to the winds and rains, its pavements broken and desolate.
The imagination grew upon him, and it was only with a great effort that he escaped from it.
"My bogies are as foolish as Barbara's," he said to himself with a smile as he went back to the daily toil of his letters.