Decline in Prophets Read Online Free PDF

should he try to kill anyone.
    “Will I say grace then, Captain Madding?” Hanrahan asked with no question in his voice.
    Madding looked startled. Grace was usually the captain’s prerogative.
    Hanrahan began before he could reply, launching into prayer in a booming Irish accent.
    “Bless, O Lord, this food we are about to eat; and we pray thee, O God, that it may be good for body and soul; and if there be any poor creature, hungry or thirsty, walking along the road,
direct them to walk into us…”
    “We’re on a boat,” Milton muttered for Rowland’s ear. “They’d drown.”
    “… that we can share the food with them as thee share thy gifts with all of us.”
    Rowland straightened, happy to move on… but Hanrahan was not finished.
    “Bring thy righteous fury down upon those among us who have strayed from thy word and commit blasphemy in the name of evil doctrines and false prophets, who consort with the devil and
summon the spirits of the dead.”
    Again, Rowland raised his head, only to have to lower his eyes once more.
    “Remind the sinful, the unchaste and immoral of the power of thy wrath, O Lord, instil in them a fear of eternity and bring them to thy divine justice. Through Christ our Lord.
Amen.”
    Rowland looked up, carefully, unsure whether Hanrahan had finally concluded. It seemed he had. The clergymen were busy crossing themselves. The extraordinary grace left the table in a stunned
silence. Under his breath, Rowland thanked his Protestant God that it was over.
    “Bishop Hanrahan and his colleagues are on their way to Sydney,” Madding said in an attempt to initiate conversation as the first course was served.
    “How wonderful!” Edna directed her enthusiasm at Father Bryan. “Sydney is the most delightful city—you’ll have a fabulous time.”
    “No doubt, it will have its share of souls to be saved from eternal damnation,” cut in Bishop Hanrahan.
    Edna looked at him blankly. “Oh—yes… I’m sure you’ll find one or two at Government House.”
    Milton laughed. Clyde looked to the ceiling in disbelief. The bishop glowered, moving his eyes from the sculptress to Milton Isaacs. He squinted at the poet, trying to make out the shadow of the
word Red, in the subdued light of the dining room. His upper lip curled with distaste.
    “What, in God’s name, would you be having on your forehead, son?”
    “My principles,” Milton replied coldly.
    “Oh God,” Clyde groaned audibly.
    Hanrahan inhaled. He reddened. “Mannix warned me I’d be finding your kind in the colony!” he said, none too quietly. “Captain, it seems it is not sufficient that you
allow black heathens aboard, but now you’ll be seating men of the true Church with Lenin’s godless spawn and a Jezebel…”
    The Hickman girls twittered at the last.
    “Now, Your Grace…,” began Madding.
    “I will not be breaking bread in such company!” The bishop stood, sending his chair clattering behind him. He glared at Milton, who winked in return.
    “You, sir,” Hanrahan’s finger shook with rage as he pointed at the long-haired poet, “are an abomination, an affront!”
    He stalked out of the dining room. Father Murphy got up reluctantly, muttered a hasty apology, and followed. They all looked expectantly at Father Bryan. He glanced at Edna, and continued to eat
his soup.
    “Well, that went well,” Rowland said as he too returned to his meal. Captain Madding grunted. It took several minutes for the muted shock in the dining room to dissipate.
    They dealt with the remaining awkwardness by ignoring it. Indeed the first course was not yet finished before Milton was thrilling the Hickman girls with tales of the savage Australian outback.
He paraphrased shamelessly from the work of Paterson, passing off verse as his personal experience. Of course, the Hickmans were American and oblivious to the Australian balladeer. To them, Milton
Isaacs cut a rugged, romantic figure.
    Clyde snorted occasionally, but otherwise