“Yes, and of Agnes, the old servant: and moreover” (with a certain emphasis), “he was and is the lover, true, constant and eternal, of that saint in heaven⁠—Justine Marie.”

“And who, father, are you ?” I continued; and though I accentuated the question, its utterance was well nigh superfluous; I was ere this quite prepared for the answer which actually came.

“I, daughter, am Père Silas; that unworthy son of Holy Church whom you once honoured with a noble and touching confidence, showing me the core of a heart, and the inner shrine of a mind whereof, in solemn truth, I coveted the direction, in behalf of the only true faith. Nor have I for a day lost sight of you, nor for an hour failed to take in you a rooted interest. Passed under the discipline of Rome, moulded by her high training, inoculated with her salutary doctrines, inspired by the zeal she alone gives⁠—I realize what then might be your spiritual rank, your practical value; and I envy Heresy her prey.”