He looked horribly worn; and his eyes had a kind of sunken brilliance that revealed fever. He made a little motion to Percy to sit down, and himself sat in the deep chair, trembling a little, and gathering his buckled feet beneath his red-buttoned cassock.
“You must forgive me, father,” he said. “I am anxious for the Bishop’s safety. He should be here by now.”
This was the Bishop of Southwark, Percy remembered, who had left England early that morning.
“He is coming straight through, your Eminence?”
“Yes; he should have been here by twenty-three. It is after midnight, is it not?”
As he spoke, the bells chimed out the half-hour.
It was nearly quiet now. All day the air had been full of sound; mobs had paraded the suburbs; the gates of the City had been barred, yet that was only an earnest of what was to be expected when the world understood itself.
The Cardinal seemed to recover himself after a few minutes’ silence.
“You look tired out, father,” he said kindly.
Percy smiled.