sawn in two held him entranced for five minutes.  It was growing dusk by now, and as it needed the light of the window to bring out the full quality of the blood, Mark carried over the big volume, propped it up in a chair behind the curtains, and knelt down to gloat over these remote oriental barbarities without pausing to remember that his father might come back at any moment, and that although he had never actually been forbidden to look at this book, the thrill of something unlawful always brooded over it.  Suddenly the door of the study opened and Mark sat transfixed by terror as completely as the Chinaman on the page before him was transfixed by a sharpened bamboo; then he heard his mother’s voice, and before he could discover himself a conversation between her and his father had begun of which Mark understood enough to know that both of them would be equally angry if they knew that he was listening.  Mark was not old enough to escape tactfully from such a difficult situation, and the only thing he could think of doing was to stay absolutely still in the hope that they would presently go out of the room and never know that he had been behind the curtain while they were talking.

“I didn’t mean you to dress yourself and come downstairs,” his father was saying ungraciously.

“My dear, I should have come down to tea in any case, and I was anxious to hear the result of your conversation with Mr. Astill.”

“You can guess, can’t you?” said the husband.

Mark had heard his father speak angrily before; but he had never heard his voice sound like a growl.  He shrank farther back in affright behind the curtains.

“You’re going to give way to the Bishop?” the wife asked gently.

“Ah, you’ve guessed, have you?  You’ve guessed by my manner?  You’ve realized, I hope, what this resolution has cost me and what it’s going to cost me in the future.  I’m a coward.  I’m a traitor. Before the cock crow twice, thou shalt deny me thrice. A coward and a traitor.”

“Neither, James—­at any rate to me.”

“To you,” the husband scoffed.  “I should hope not to you, considering that it is on your account I am surrendering.  Do you suppose that if I were free, as to serve God I ought to be free, do you suppose then that I should give up my principles like this?  Never!  But because I’m a married priest, because I’ve a wife and family to support, my hands are tied.  Oh, yes, Astill was very tactful.  He kept insisting on my duty to the parish; but did he once fail to rub in the position in which I should find myself if I did resign?  No bishop would license me; I should be inhibited in every diocese—­in other words I should starve.  The beliefs I hold most dear, the beliefs I’ve fought for all these years surrendered for bread and butter! Woman, what have I to do with thee? Our Blessed Lord could speak thus even to His Blessed Mother.  But I! He that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.  And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.”