ngs to me and you must permit me to keep
it."

"What do you intend to do, my son?"

"There is only one thing to do now."

"What is that?"

"_To save her._"

There was no need to ask how. The Pope understood, and his breast
throbbed and swelled. But now that he had accomplished what he came for,
now that he had awakened the sleeping soul and given it hope and faith
and courage to face justice, and even death if need be, the Pope became
suddenly conscious of a feeling in his own heart which he struggled in
vain to suppress.

"Far be it from me to excuse a crime, my son, but the merciful God who
employs our poor passions to His own great purposes has used your acts
to great ends. The world is trembling on the verge of unknown events and
nobody knows what a day may bring forth. Let us wait a while."

Rossi shook his head.

"It is true that a crime will be the same to-morrow as to-day, but the
dead man was a tyrant, a ferocious tyrant, and if he forced you in
self-defence..."

Again Rossi shook his head, but still the Pope struggled on.

"You have your own life to think about, my son, and who knows but in
God's good service..."

"Let me go."

"You intend to give yourself up?"

"Yes."

The Pope could say no more. He rose to his feet. His saintly face was
full of a dumb yearning love and pride, which his tongue might never
tell. He thought of his years of dark searching, ending at length in
this meeting and farewell, and an impulse came to him to clasp the young
man to his swelling and throbbing breast. But after a moment, with
something of his old courageous calm of voice, he said:

"I am not surprised at your decision, my son. It is worthy of your blood
and name. And now that we are parting for the last time, I could wish to
tell you something."

David Rossi did not speak.

"I knew your mother, my son."

"My mother?"

The Pope bowed and smiled.

"She was a great soul, too, and she suffered terribly. Such are the ways
of God."

Still Rossi did not speak. He was looking steadfastly into the Pope's
quivering face and making an effort to control himself.

The Pope's voice shook and his lip trembled.

"Naturally, you think ill of your father, knowing how much your mother
suffered. Isn't that so?"

Rossi put one hand to his forehead as if to steady his reeling brain,
and said, "Who am I to think ill of any one?"

The Pope smiled again, a timid smile.

"David...."

Rossi caught his breath.