Nothing can be
wasted,--not a breath, not a scene, not a sound. All is treasured up
in Nature's store-house and can be eternally reproduced at Nature's
will. Then what was to become of the myriads of human beings and
immortal souls whom the Church had failed to rescue? THE CHURCH HAD
FAILED! Why had it failed? Whose the fault?--whose the weakness?--
for fault and weakness were existent somewhere.
"WHEN THE SON OF MAN COMETH, THINK YE HE SHALL FIND FAITH ON EARTH?"
"No!" whispered the Cardinal, suddenly forced, as it were in his own
despite, to contradict his former assertion--"No!" He paused, and
mechanically making his way towards the door of the Cathedral, he
dipped his fingers into the holy water that glistened dimly in its
marble basin near the black oak portal, and made the sign of the
cross on brow and breast;--"He will not find faith where faith
should be pre-eminent. It must be openly confessed--repentingly
admitted,--He will NOT find faith even in the Church He founded,--I
say it to our shame!"
His head drooped, as though his own words had wounded him, and with
an air of deep dejection he slowly passed out. The huge iron-bound
door swung noiselessly to and fro behind him,--the grave-toned bell
in the tower struck seven.
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