“It was an unfortunate idea, for who can say what is really going on at Jenne? Do you know there are those up there, who look on you with little favour?”
In reply Benedetto only prayed His Holiness not to oblige him to answer.
“I understand,” the Pope said, “and, I must confess, your prayer is most Christian. You need not speak; but I cannot hide the fact that you have been accused of many things. Are you aware of this?”
Benedetto was aware of, or rather suspected, one accusation only. The Pope seemed the more embarrassed. He himself was calm.
“You are accused of having pretended at Jenne to be a miracle-worker, and by this boasting of yours, to have caused the death in your own house of an unfortunate man. They even assert that he died of certain drinks you gave him. You are accused of having preached to the people more as a Protestant than as a Catholic, and also——”
The Holy Father hesitated. His virginal purity recoiled from alluding to certain things.
“Of having been over-intimate with the village schoolmistress. What can you answer, my son?”
“Holy Father,” Benedetto said calmly, “the Spirit is answering for me in your heart.”
The Pontiff fixed his eyes on him, in great astonishment; but he was not only astonished, he was also much troubled; for it was as if Benedetto had read in his soul. A slight flush coloured his face.
“Explain your meaning,” he said.