IV

"The dress of a simple priest to-day, Gaetanino," said the Pope, when

his valet came to his bedroom on the following morning.

After Mass and the usual visit of the Cardinal Secretary, the Pope

called for the young Count de Raymond.

"We'll go down to our guest first," he said, putting into the

side-pocket of his cassock the letters which the Noble Guard had given

him.

They found Rossi sitting in a large, sparsely furnished room, by an

almost untouched breakfast. He lifted his head when he heard steps, and

rose as the Pope entered. His pale face was a picture of despair.

"Something has died in him," thought the Pope, and an aching sadness,

which had been gnawing at his heart for days, returned.

"They make you comfortable in this old place, my son?"

"Yes, your Holiness."

"And you have everything you wish for?"

"More than I deserve, your Holiness."

"You have suffered, my son. But, in the providence of God, who knows

what may happen yet? Don't lose heart. Take an old man's word for

it--life is worth living. The Holy Father has found it so in spite of

many sorrows."

A kind of pitying smile passed over the young man's miserable face.

"Mine is a sorrow your Holiness can know nothing about--I have lost my

wife," he said.

There was a moment of silence. Then the Pope said in a voice that shook

slightly, "You don't mean that your wife _is_ dead, but only...."

"Only," said Rossi, with a curl of the lip, "that it was she who

betrayed me."

"It's hard, my son, very hard. But who knows what influences...."

"Curse them! Curse the influences, whatever they were, which caused a

wife to betray her husband."

The Pope, who was sitting with both hands on the knob of his stick,

quivered perceptibly. "My son," he said, "you have much to justify you,

and it is not for me to gainsay you altogether. But God rules His world

in righteousness, and if this had not happened, who knows but what worse

might have befallen you?"

"Nothing worse _could_ have befallen me, your Holiness."

There was another moment of silence, and then the Pope said, "Yes, I

understand what it is to build one's faith on a human foundation. The

foundation fails, and then the heart sinks, the soul totters. But bad as

this ... this betrayal is, you do very wrong if you refuse to see that

it saved you from the consequences--the awful consequences before God

and man--of your intended conduct."

"What conduct, your Holiness?"

"The terrible conduct which formed the basis of your plans on returning

to Rome."

"You mean ... what the newspapers talked about?"

The Pope bent his head.

"A conspiracy to kill the King?"

Again the Pope bent his head.

"You believed that, your Holiness?"

"Unhappily I was compelled to do so."

"And she ... do you suppose she believed it?"

"She believed you were engaged in conspiracies. There was nothing else

she could believe in the light of what you had said and written."

After a moment Rossi began to laugh. "And yet you say the world is ruled

in righteousness!" he said.

The Pope's face was whitening. "Do you tell me it was a mistake?" he

asked.

"Indeed I do. The only conspiracies I was engaged in were conspiracies

to found associations of freedom which had been forbidden by the

tyrannical new decree. But what matter? If an error like that can lead

to results like these, what's the good of trying?" And he laughed again.

The Pope, who was deeply moved, looked up into the young man's tortured

face, without knowing that his own tears were streaming. Old memories

were astir within him, and he was carried back into the past of his own

life. He was remembering the days when he too had reeled beneath the

blow of a terrible fate, and all his hopes and beliefs had been mown

down as by a scythe. But God had been good. His gracious hand had healed

the wound and made all things well.

Taking the letters from the pocket of his cassock, the Pope laid them on

the table.

"These are for you, my son," he said, and then he turned away.

Going down the narrow roofed-in passage to the Castle of St. Angelo,

with shafts of morning sunshine slanting through its lancet windows, and

the voices of children at play coming up from the street below, the Pope

told himself that he must be severe with Roma. The only thing

irremediable in all that had happened was the assassination, and though

that, in God's hands, had teen turned to the good of the people, yet it

raised a barrier between two unhappy souls that might never in this life

be passed.

"Poor child! Poor flower broken by the storms of fate! But I must

reprove her. Before I give her the Blessed Sacrament she must confess

and show a full contrition."

V

Roma was lying on a bed-chair in the frescoed room which had once been

the Pope's salon. She was wearing a white dress, and it made her

unruffled brow look like alabaster. Her large eyes, which were closed,

had blue rings on the lids, and her mouth, once so rosy and so gay with

laughter and light words, was colourless as marble.

A lay Sister, in a black and white habit, moved softly about the room.

It was Bruno's widow, Elena. She was the Sister Angelica who had entered

the convent of the Sacred Heart. It was there she had buried her own

trouble until, hearing of Roma's, she had begged to be allowed to nurse

her.

A door opened and an officer, in a mixed light and dark blue uniform,

entered. It was the doctor of the regiment.

"Sleeping, Sister?"

"Yes, sir."

"Poor soul! Let her sleep as long as she can."

But at that moment Roma opened her eyes, and held out her white hand.

"Is it you, doctor?" she said with a smile.

"And how is my patient this morning? Better, I think."

"Much better. In fact, I feel no pain at all to-day."

"She never does. She never feels anything if you believe her," said

Elena.

"Tired, Sister?"

"Why should I be tired, I wonder?"

"Sitting up all night with me. Your big burden is very troublesome,

doctor."

"Tut! You mustn't talk like that."

"If all jailors were as good to their prisoners as mine are to me!"

"And if all prisoners were as good to their jailors.... But I forbid

that subject. I absolutely forbid it.... Ah, here comes your breakfast."

A soldier in uniform trousers and a linen jacket and cap had come in

with a tray on which there was a smoking basin.

"You are from Sicily, aren't you, cook?"

"Yes, from Sicily, Signora."

Roma leaned back to Elena and said in an undertone, "That's where _he_

has gone to, isn't it?"

"Some people say so, but nobody knows where he is."

"No news yet?"

"None whatever."

"Sicily must be a lovely place, cook?"

"It is, Signora. It's the loveliest place in the world."

"Last night I had such a beautiful dream, doctor. Somebody who had been

away came back, and all the church bells rang for him. I thought it was

noon, I remember, for the big gun of the Castle had just been fired. But

when I awoke it was quite dark, yet there was really something going on,

for I could hear people singing in the city and bands of music playing."

"Ah, that ... I'm afraid that was only ... only the sequel to the Prime

Minister's funeral. Rome is not sorry that Baron Bonelli is dead, and

last night a procession of men and women marched along the streets with

songs and hymns, as on a night of carnival.... But I must be going.

Sister, see she takes her medicine as usual, and lies quiet and does not

excite herself. Good-morning!"

When the cook also had gone Roma raised herself on her elbow. "Did you

hear what the doctor said, Elena? The death of the Baron has altered

everything. It was really no crime to kill that man, and by rights

nobody should suffer for it."

"Donna Roma!"

"Ah! no, I didn't mean that. Yet why shouldn't I? And why shouldn't you?

Didn't he kill Bruno and our poor dear little Joseph?..."

Elena was crying. "I'm not thinking of myself," she said.

"I'm not thinking of myself, either," said Roma, "and I'm not going to

give in at the eleventh hour. But David Rossi will come back. I am sure

he will, and then..."

"And then... _you_, Donna Roma?"

"I?"

Roma fell back on her bed-chair. "No, _I_ shall not be here, that's

true. It's a pity, but after all it makes no difference. And if David

Rossi has to come back... over... over my dead body, as you might say...

who is to know... or care... except perhaps... some day... when he..."

Roma struggled on, but Elena broke down utterly.

The door opened again, and a sentry on guard outside announced the

English Ambassador.

"Ah! Sir Evelyn, is it you?"

The English gentleman held down his head. "Forgive me if I intrude upon

your trouble, Donna Roma."

"Sit! Give his Excellency a chair, Sister.... Times have changed since I

knew you first, Sir Evelyn. I was a thoughtless, happy woman in those

days. But they are gone, and I do not regret them."

"You are very brave, Donna Roma. Too brave. Only for that your trial

must have gone differently."

"It's all for the best, your Excellency. But was there anything you

wished to say to me?"

"Yes. The report of your condemnation has been received with deep

emotion in my country, and as the evidence given in court showed that

you were born in England, I feel that I am justified in intervening on

your behalf."

"But I don't want you to intervene, dear friend."

"Donna Roma, it is still possible to appeal to the Court of Cassation."

"I have no desire to appeal--there is nothing to appeal against."

"There might be much if you could be brought to see that--that.... In

fact so many pleas are possible, and all of them good ones. For

instance...."

The Englishman dropped both eyes and voice.

"Well?"

"Donna Roma, you were tried and condemned on a charge of going to the

Prime Minister's cabinet with the intention of killing him, and of

killing him there. But if it could be proved that _he_ came to _your_

house, and that, to shield _another person not now in the hands of

justice_, you...."

"What are you saying, your Excellency?"

"Look!"

The Englishman had drawn from his breast-pocket a crumpled sheet of

white paper.

"Last night I visited your deserted apartment in the Piazza Navona, and

there, amid other signs that were clear and convincing--the marks of two

pistol-shots--I found--this."

"What is it? Give it to me," cried Roma. She almost snatched it out of

his hand. It was the warrant which Rossi had rolled up and flung away.

"How did that warrant come there, Donna Roma? Who brought it? What other

person was with you in those rooms that night? What does he say to this

evidence of his presence on the scene of the crime?"

Roma did not speak immediately. She continued to look at the Englishman

with her large mournful eyes until his own eyes fell, and there was no

sound but the crinkling of the warrant in her hand. Then she said, very

softly:

"Excellency, you must please let me keep this paper. As you see, it is

nothing in itself, and without my testimony you can make nothing of it.

I shall never appeal against my sentence, and therefore it can be no

good to me or to anybody. But it may prove to be a danger to somebody

else--somebody whose name should be above reproach."

She stretched out a sweet white hand and touched his own.

"Haven't I done enough wrong to him already, and isn't this paper a

proof of it? Must I go farther still, and bring him to the galleys? You

cannot wish it. Don't you see that the police would have to deny

everything? And I--if you forced me to speak, I should deny everything

also."

A gentle, brave dauntlessness rang in her voice, and the Englishman

could with difficulty keep back his tears.

"Excellency, Sir Evelyn, friend ... tell me I may keep the paper."

The Englishman rose and turned his head away. "It is yours, Donna

Roma--you must do as you please with it."

She kissed the paper and put it in her breast.

"Good-bye, dear friend."

He tried to answer, "Good-bye! God bless you!" But the words would not

come.

"The Major!" said the voice of the sentry. The Commandant of the Castle

came into the room.

"Ah! Major!" cried Roma.

"The doctor tells me you are better this morning."

"Much better."

"It is my duty--my unhappy duty--to bring you a painful message. The

authorities, thinking your presence in Rome a cause of excitement to the

populace, have decided to send you to Viterbo."

"When is it to be, Major?"

"To-morrow about mid-day."

"I shall be quite-ready. But have you sent for Father Pifferi?"

"I came to speak about that also. Sister, return to your room for the

present."

Elena went out.

"Donna Roma, a great personage has asked to see you in the place of the

Father General. He will come in through that doorway. It leads by a

passage long sealed up to the apartment of the Pope in the Vatican, and

he who comes and goes by it must be unknown and unseen by any one except

yourself."

"Major!"

But the Major was going hurriedly out of the room. A moment afterwards

the Pope entered in his black cassock as a priest.