"You understand that this means immeasurable bloodshed?"
"But certainly."
"You defend that?"
"My Master came bringing not peace, but a sword. But I am not here to teach theology."
"But until midnight——"
"Until midnight I am in your hands."
Again the silence fell, deeper than ever. Monsignor took his eyes off the Pope's face for an instant to glance round what he could see of the circle. All were staring steadily, some half sunk down in their seats, others stretched forward, clasping the outer edges of the desks with strained hands, all staring at this quiet white figure who faced them. He looked again at that face. If there had been in it, not merely agitation or fear, but even unusual paleness, if there had been in those hands, one of which bore the great Papal ring, not merely trembling, but even a sign of constriction or tenseness, it might well have been, thought the priest afterwards, that the scene would have ended very differently. But the naturalness and ease of the pose were absolute. He stood there, the hands lightly laid one upon the other, his face palish certainly, but not colourless. There was even a slight flush in his cheeks from his quick walk up the long hall. It was a situation in which the weight of a hair would turn the scale. . . .
Then the President lifted his head slightly, and a tremor ran round the circle.
"I see no reason for delay," he said heavily. "Our terms were clear. This man came with the full knowledge of them and the consequences of disregarding them——"
The Pope lifted his hand.