Summary

Annie Nathan Meyer Robert Annys: Poor Priest. A Tale of the Great Uprising

Only a simple, bareheaded, poor priest in a garb which had become a familiar sight enough in the fields of harrowed earth or among the rows of waving corn, but here in the Cathedral a strange prophetic figure, portending the beginning of the end—the end of a priesthood that would act before the people, the beginning of a priesthood that would act for the people; the end of the sway of the mortmain with its icy touch of the past, the beginning of the sway of [27] the living hand, red with the quickly flowing blood, warm with the throbbing sense of the fellowship of man.
Source: Gutenberg

Annie Nathan Meyer Robert Annys: Poor Priest. A Tale of the Great Uprising

Power? Everything spoke of power. Power, power, power—the power of the lesser clergy, the power of deacons and archdeacons, the power of Bishops and Archbishops, the power of the Papal Legate, the power of the Pope, the power of Mighty—Imperial Rome. What though the note of the prayers was always humility? What knew the people of the Latin words that rose to Heaven? What though the exquisitely intoned phrases of the Bishop were all a self-confessed unworthiness to appear before the Lord?
Source: Gutenberg

Annie Nathan Meyer Robert Annys: Poor Priest. A Tale of the Great Uprising

He knew now that, save he loved with every drop in his veins and every nerve in his body, it was not what men called love. He took her firm, strong hand in his, and readily would he have cut his own from his arm could he have felt shoot through him the exquisite bounding of the pulses that would come even from the faintest touch of Rose's hand. What was [223] this marvellous emotion that comes not and goes not as a man wills it?
He saw with a tightening of his heart-strings that Matilda looked wan, as if she, too, had lost much sleep.
Source: Gutenberg

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