The priest fascinated me with his erudition,
which swam lightly on the crest of his talk. He was, so I discovered
during the evening, particularly well versed in the mystical writers, in
the writings of the Kabbalists and the books of the inspired Northman,
Swedenborg. As we sat drinking our coffee at one of the little tables in
the spacious courtyard, I revived the motive of a new religion.
"Monsignor, have you ever speculated on the possible appearance of a
second Mahomet, a second Buddha? What if, from some Asiatic jungle,
there sallied out upon Europe a terrible ape-god, a Mongolian with
exotic eyes and the magnetism of a religious madman--"
"You are speaking of Antichrist?" he calmly questioned.
"Antichrist! Do you really believe in the Devil's Messiah?"
"Believe, man! why, I have _seen_ him."
I leaned back in my chair, wondering whether I should laugh or look
solemn. He noted my indecision, and his eyes twinkled--they were the
blue-gray of the Irish, the eyes of a seer or an amiable ironist.
"Listen! but first let us get some strong cigars.
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