It lay between him
and the Pope. The Pope was perhaps best in theory, but in practice the
Archbishop of Canterbury would do sufficiently well. If he could
only manage to sprinkle a pinch of salt, as it were, on the
Archbishop's tail, he might convert the whole Church of England to
free thought by a coup de main. There must be an amount of cogency
which even an Archbishop -an Archbishop whose perceptions had never
been quickened by imprisonment for assault -would not be able to
withstand. When brought face to face with the facts, as he, Ernest,
could arrange them, his Grace would have no resource but to admit
them; being an honourable man he would at once resign his
Archbishopric, and Christianity would become extinct in England within
a few months' time. This, at any rate, was how things ought to be. But
all the time Ernest had no confidence in the Archbishop's not
hopping off just as the pinch was about to fall on him, and this
seemed so unfair that his blood boiled at the thought of it. If this
was to be so, he must try if he could not fix him by the judicious use
of bird-lime or a snare, or throw the salt on his tail from an
ambuscade.
To do him justice, it was not himself that he greatly cared about.
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