He spoke still in that absolutely quiet and conversational tone in which he had begun.  One hand rested lightly on the rail before him; the other gently fingered the great cross on his breast, naturally and easily, as the priest had seen him finger it once before in his own palace.  It was unthinkable that such a weight in the world’s history rested on so slight a foundation.  Yet for a few frozen moments no one else moved or spoke.  It is probable that the scene they witnessed seemed to them unsubstantial and untrue.

Then, as the priest still stood, fascinated and overwhelmed, he noticed a movement in the great chair before him.  Very slowly the President shifted his position, clasping his hands loosely before him and bending forward a little.  Then a dialogue began, of which every word remained in the priest’s mind as if written there.  It was in French throughout, the smooth delicacy of the Pope’s intonation contrasting strangely with the heavy German accent of the other.

“You come as an envoy, sir.  Do you then accept our terms?”

“I accept no terms.  I offer them.”

“And those?”

“Absolute and unconditional submission to myself.”

“You received our notice as to the treatment of such envoys?”

(There was a rustle in the hall, but the other paid no attention.)

“But certainly.”

“You come armed then—­protected in some manner?”

The Pope smiled.  He made a little opening gesture with his hands.

“I come as you see me; no more.”

“Your armies are behind you?”

“The European air-fleets start from every quarter at midnight.”

“With your consent?”

“But certainly.”

“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. . . .