The Case Against Satan by Ray Russell Page B

miss.” The Bishop’s voice was clipped.
    Susan walked reluctantly toward him.
    â€œSit down.”
    She sat opposite him, in the same chair she had sat in before. But, before, everything had been cozy and friendly. There was nothing friendly about this unsmiling, unblinking old man.
    â€œYour name is?” he asked.
    â€œSusan Garth.”
    â€œI,” he said coldly, “am by the grace of God a bishop of Holy Mother Church. Is that the way you address me?”
    â€œNo, Your—Excellency.”
    â€œI am told you are a bad girl.”
    â€œI—”
    â€œSilence,” he said cuttingly. “A bad girl; a girl with a filthy tongue; a girl who cursed her own father; a girl with hideous, unclean thoughts. A dangerous person. A violent person. A person who attacked her own spiritual advisor and would have murdered him had she not been prevented by sheer force. A person so depraved she cannot come near the door of the church without drawing back as if it were the gate of Hell itself. Is all this true?”
    â€œYes,” she said almost in a whisper, “Your Excellency.”
    â€œIs it true, then,” he went on relentlessly, “that you looked with lust upon a priest of God, and laid the hands of lust upon his body? That you accused him of harboring lustful thoughts toward you?”
    She nodded.
    â€œIs it true that you cursed this holy man in fearful terms?”
    She nodded again.
    â€œAll these terrible things are true?”
    Avoiding his eyes, she murmured, “Yes. They—”
    â€œLook at me when you speak!”
    With difficulty she raised her eyes and looked at the granite face.
    â€œThey’re all true,” she said. “All those things.”
    The Bishop rose from his chair, slowly, solemnly, towering above her. He walked away from her, his hands clasped behind his back. Without looking at her, he said, “Adjoining this house we are in, this rectory, is a church. It is your church, the Church of St. Michael. It is only one of many churches in a diocese of which I, as Bishop, am the head. Do you understand that?”
    â€œYes, Your Excellency.”
    Still with his back to her, he continued: “Then you must understand that when I say something to you, it is not the same thing as if it were only your father speaking to you, or your priest, or the nuns in school. You are in the presence of your Bishop. Is this clear?”
    She nodded. He could not, of course, see her.
    â€œIs—this—clear!
I want to hear your
voice,
girl!”
    Near tears, her voice quavering, she said, “It’s all clear to me, Your Excellency.”
    He turned around. “Very well. Then listen to me. I want you to stand up.” She did.
    â€œI want you to walk over here to me.”
    She did, but as if each step were bringing her close to death.
    He put out his large hand. “I want you to take my hand.”
    She drew back.
    â€œTake my hand!!”
    She did, her lips trembling. His hand, twice the size of hers, cold and rough, enfolded her hand completely and held it in a clamp-like grip.
    â€œNow,” he said, “you see this door? No, not the one you just came through; this other door. Did you know it leads directly to the church?” He felt her freeze. “Directly to the church, with itsaltar and its candles and its crucifix?” She could not remove her eyes from the door. “You and I,” he said, “are going to walk hand in hand through that door and into the church.”
    â€œNo!” She pulled but he held her firm.
    â€œAs your Bishop, I order you!”
    â€œNo, no, I won’t, I can’t!”
She made a mighty effort, broke away from him and sprang to the door by which she had entered the study. She twisted the knob, rattled it; the door was locked. She pounded on it. Finally, trembling, sobbing, her teeth chattering, she sank to the floor.
    The Bishop sighed. The business about the