When,--with the removal of the
shovel hat and thick muffler which had helped to disguise that
visitor's personality,--the features of Monsignor Del Fortis were
disclosed, he sprang forward and threw himself on his knees.
"Mercy!--Mercy!" he moaned--"Have pity on me, in the name of God!"
Del Fortis looked down upon him with contempt, as though he were some
loathsome reptile writhing at his feet. "Silence!" he said, in a harsh
whisper--"Remember, we are watched here! Get up!--why do you kneel to
_me_? I have nothing to do with you, beyond such office as the
Church enjoins!" And a cold smile darkened, rather than lightened his
features. "I am sent to administer 'spiritual consolation' to you!"
Slowly the prisoner struggled up to a standing posture, and pressing
both hands to his head, he stared wildly before him.
"'Spiritual consolation'!" he muttered-"'Spiritual'?" A faint dull
vacuous smile flickered over his face, and he shuddered. "I understand!
You come to prepare my soul for Heaven!"
Del Fortis gave him a sinister look.
"That depends on yourself!" he replied curtly--"The Church can speed
you either way,--to Heaven, or--Hell!"
The prisoner's hands clenched involuntarily with a gesture of despair.
"I know that!" he said sullenly--"The Church can save or kill! What of
it? I am now beyond even the power of the Church!"
Del Fortis seated himself on the stone bench.
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