"Our Fathers are assembled in the Chapter-house, worthy sister--yes,
in the Chapter-house--for the election of an Abbott.--Ah, Benedicite!
there must be no ringing of bells--no high mass--no opening of the
great gates now, that the people might see and venerate their
spiritual Father! Our Fathers must hide themselves rather like robbers
who choose a leader, than godly priests who elect a mitred Abbot."
"Regard not that, my brother," answered Magdalen Graeme; "the first
successors of Saint Peter himself were elected, not in sunshine, but
in tempests--not in the halls of the Vatican, but in the subterranean
vaults and dungeons of heathen Rome--they were not gratulated with
shouts and salvos of cannon-shot and of musketry, and the display of
artificial fire--no, my brother--but by the hoarse summons of Lictors
and Praetors, who came to drag the Fathers of the Church to martyrdom.
From such adversity was the Church once raised, and by such will it
now be purified.--And mark me, brother! not in the proudest days of
the mitred Abbey, was a Superior ever chosen, whom his office shall so
much honour, as _he_ shall be honoured, who now takes it upon him
in these days of tribulation. On whom, my brother, will the choice
fall?"
"On whom can it fall--or, alas! who would dare to reply to the call,
save the worthy pupil of the Sainted Eustatius--the good and valiant
Father Ambrose?"
"I know it," said Magdalen; "my heart told me long ere your lips had
uttered his name.
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