She knew the phrase somehow, but what it connoted was very shadowy and
sinister: some strange, mighty chief of hostile heathendom.
"Who else wud I be manin'? The Holy Mother I'd be for prayin' to
meself; but as ye're a Jewess, I dursn't tell ye to do that. But the
Pope, he's a gintleman, an' so he is, an' sorra a bit he'll moind that
ye don't go to mass, whin he shpies that poor, weeshy, pale shrimp o'
yours. He'll just wave his hand, shpake a wurrd, an' whisht! in the
twinklin' of a bedposht ye'll be praisin' the Holy Mother."
Zillah's brain was whirling. "Go to Rome!" she said.
The Fire-Woman poised the poker.
"Well, ye can't expect the Pope to come to Dalston!"
"No, no; I don't mean that," said Zillah, in hasty apology. "Only it's
so far off, and I shouldn't know how to go."
"It's not so far off as Ameriky, an' it's two broths of bhoys I've got
there."
"Isn't it?" asked Zillah.
"No, Lord love ye: an' sure gold carries ye anywhere nowadays, ixcept
to Heaven."
"But if I got to Rome, would the Pope see the child?"
"As sartin as the child wud see him," the Fire-Woman replied
emphatically.
"He can do miracles, then?" inquired Zillah.
"What else wud he be for? Not that 'tis much of a miracle to take away
the Evil Oi, bad scran to the witch!"
"Then perhaps our Rabbi can do it, too?" cried Zillah, with a sudden
hope.