The Syrian sat down, handing the extra cloak to his master, and waited until the other had settled Himself in a chair set in such a position at the side of the table that the face of each was visible to the other. Then he waited, with his brown fingers poised above the row of keys, looking at the other’s face as He arranged himself to speak. That face, he thought, looking out from the hood, seemed paler than ever in this cold light of dawn; the black arched eyebrows accentuated this, and even the steady lips, preparing to speak, seemed white and bloodless. He had His paper in His hand, and His eyes were fixed upon this.
“Make sure it is the Cardinal,” he said abruptly.
The priest tapped off an enquiry, and, with moving lips, raid off the printed message, as like magic it precipitated itself on to the tall white sheet of paper that faced him.
“It is his Eminence, Holiness,” he said softly. “He is alone at the instrument.”
“Very well. Now then; begin.”
“We have received your Eminence’s letter, and have noted the news.... It should have been forwarded by telegraphy—why was that not done?”
The voice paused, and the priest who had snapped off the message, more quickly than a man could write it, read aloud the answer.
“‘I did not understand that it was urgent. I thought it was but one more assault. I had intended to communicate more so soon as I heard more.”’
“Of course it was urgent,” came the voice again in the deliberate intonation that was used between these two in the case of messages for transmission. “Remember that all news of this kind is always urgent.”
“‘I will remember,’ read the priest. ‘I regret my mistake.’”