So much for the physical side.

But, stranger than all this, was the unmistakable atmosphere that seemed to enter with him—­an atmosphere that from one side produced a sense of great fear and helplessness, and on the other of a kind of security.  In an instant Monsignor felt as a wounded child might feel in the presence of a surgeon.  And, throughout the interview that followed, this sensation deepened incalculably.

The man said nothing—­not even a word of greeting—­as he came across the room.  He just inclined his head a little, with a grave and business-like courtesy, and waved the other back into his chair.  Then, still standing himself, he began to speak in a deep but quite quiet voice, and very slowly and distinctly.

“You understand, Monsignor, the terms on which you are here?  Yes.  Very well.  I do not wish you to say Mass until your last morning.  I have spoken to Father Jervis about you. . . .

“Meanwhile, for to-day you are at liberty to walk in the court outside as much as you wish, to read as you wish—­in fact, to occupy yourself as you like in this room, the ambulatory downstairs, the roof overhead, and the garden.  You are to write no letters, and to speak to no one.  You will have your meals in the next room alone, where you will also find a few books.  I wish you to get as quiet and controlled as you can.  Tomorrow morning I will come in again at the same time and give you further directions.  You will find a tribune opening out at the end of this corridor, looking into a chapel where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved.  But I do not wish you to spend there more than one hour in the course of the day.”

The monk was silent again, and did not even raise his eyes.  Monsignor said nothing.  There was really nothing to say.  He felt entirely powerless, and not even desirous to speak.  He understood that to obey was simply inevitable, and that silence was what was wished.

“I do not wish you to rehearse at all what you intend to say to me to-morrow,” went on the monk suddenly.  “You are here to show me yourself and your wounds, and there must be no false shame.  You will say what you feel to-morrow; and I shall say what I think.  I wish you a happy retreat.”

Then, again without a word, but with that same inclination of his head, he went swiftly across the room and was gone.

It was all completely unexpected, and Monsignor sat a few minutes, astonished, without moving.  He had not uttered a syllable; and yet, in a sense, that seemed quite natural.  He had seen the monk look at him keenly as he came in, and was aware that this had been an inspection by some new kind of expert.  Probably the monk had heard the outlines of the case from Father Jervis, and had just looked in this morning, not only to give his instructions, but to ratify by some peculiar kind of intuition the account he had heard.  Yet the ignominy of it all did not touch him in the least.  He felt more than ever like a child in the hands of an expert, and, like a child, content to be so.  Conventions and the mutual little flatteries of the world outside appeared meaningless here. . . .