“That of Catholicism. I must come armed with authority. I must carry the sword and keys of St. Peter. I must be sustained by all the pomps of that church of pomps and triumphs. My divine mission must speak through signs and symbols, through stately stole, pontifical ornaments, the tiara of religious state on the day of its most solemn ceremonial; and with these I must bring the word of power, born equally of intellect and soul, and my utterance must be in the language of divinest poesy!”
“Ah! you mistake! That last will be enough. Speak to me in poesy—let me hear that—and you will subdue me, I believe, to any faith that you teach. For I can not but believe the faith that is endowed with the faculty of poetic utterance.”
“In truth it is a divine utterance—perhaps the only divine utterance. Would I had it for your sake.”
“Oh! you must have it. I fancy I see it in some things that you have said. You read poetry, I am sure—I am sure you love it.”
“I do! I know not anything that I love half so well.”
“Then you write it?” she asked eagerly.
“No! the gift has been denied me.”
She looked at him with eyes of regret.
“How unfortunate,” she said.
“Doubly so, as the deficiency seems to disappoint you.”