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happening here, and with the Feast of St. Michael almost upon us . . .” He turned abruptly to Gregory. “Let’s see how much you remember from the seminary. Who is St. Michael?”
    â€œWhy,” said Gregory, “the Archangel who led the rout of Lucifer and cast Lucifer and his legions into Hell.”
    â€œThere is a prayer,” said the Bishop, “which is recited at the end of low Mass. You say it almost every day. How does it go?”
    Gregory, bewildered, recited the familiar prayer:
    â€œSt. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our safe-guard against the wickedness and snares of the devil. Restrain him, O God, we humbly beseech Thee, and do Thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God cast him into Hell with the other evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin and destruction of souls.”
    â€œThank you,” said the Bishop. “Can you tell me who composed that prayer? Do you remember the story?”
    â€œWas it Pius X?” Gregory hazarded. “Or, no—”
    â€œHis Holiness, Pope Leo XIII,” said the Bishop. “One day after Mass, they say, His Holiness was in conference with the Cardinals, and was mysteriously stricken. He fell to the floor. They called a doctor. The doctor examined His Holiness.
The pulse was not beating
. He was given up for dead, when just as mysteriously he awakened and spoke of a terrifying vision he had been permitted to see: a vision of a future world dominated by the legions of Satan. St. Michael appeared, however, and routed those legions as he did long ago when he first cast them into the Abyss. That was the end of the vision, and when it was over, the Pope’s pulse began beating again and he returned to the living. It was then that he composed the prayer in honor of St. Michael, the prayer that is recited at the end of the Mass the world over.”
    Gregory said, “I remember the story now, Your Excellency. But why are you telling it to me?”
    â€œTo prepare you,” said the Bishop. “To prepare you for what is to come. It will not be easy for you to believe.”
    Gregory waited, not without impatience.
    â€œI have come to the conclusion,” said the Bishop finally, “that the girl is—not in a manner of speaking, but literally and actually—possessed.”
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    Filtered through multiple walls, into the silent womb of the study penetrated dim tokens of the outside world—a brief single blare of a klaxon, a long shout of a playing child—the sounds reduced to fuzzy miniatures of themselves. A small electric clock on the study desk whirred discreetly.
    Possessed
. A short and simple word—but a word that, in a fragment of a second, made the shattered, scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fall together in Gregory’s mind. Possessed—by the Devil. “Not in a manner of speaking, but literally and actually . . .”
    For the first time in his life, Gregory was forced to think of God’s Adversary—truly think of him, focus all of his mind upon him, all of his belief, all of his faith. The existence of God he had never doubted; the existence of Satan he had never doubted, either—but, on the other hand, Gregory now asked himself with creeping terror, had he ever
really
believed it? He felt cold. To disbelieve the existence of the Evil One was heresy—something infinitely more serious than an occasional drop too much of brandy. If God existed, logically his Adversary existed. Gregory believed in God—not only intellectually, but emotionally, possibly instinctively; he accepted Satan only with the surface of his mind, because it was logical to do so, because his acceptance had never been put to the test, because not to accept Satan was the act of a heretic.
    He knew he had never been the best kind of priest. A priest needs a head on his shoulders, and Gregory