Then, pushing the chair aside, he once more fell upon his knees, and stretching out his hands towards the Pontiff, spoke more eagerly, more excitedly.
“Vicar of Christ, I ask for something else. I am a sinner, unworthy to be compared to the saints, but the Spirit of God may speak even through the vilest mouth. As a woman once conjured the Pope to come to Rome, so I now conjure Your Holiness to come forth from the Vatican. Come forth, Holy Father; but the first time, at least the first time, come forth on an errand connected with your office. Lazarus suffers and dies day by day; go and visit Lazarus! Christ calls out for succour in all poor, suffering human beings. From the Gallery of Inscriptions I saw the lights shining before another palace here in Rome. If human suffering call out in the name of Christ, there they may perhaps answer: ‘nay,’ but they go. From the Vatican the answer to Christ is: ‘yea,’ but they do not go. What will Christ say at the terrible hour, Holy Father? These words of mine, could the world hear them, would bring vituperation upon me, from those who profess the greatest devotion to the Vatican; but though they hurl vituperation and thunderbolts against me, not until the hour of my death will I cease crying aloud: What will Christ say? What will Christ say? To Him I appeal!”
The lamp’s tiny flame grew smaller and smaller; in the narrow circle of pale light upon which the shadows were creeping little of Benedetto was visible save his outstretched hands, little of the Pope was visible save his right hand grasping the silver bell. As soon as Benedetto ceased, the Holy Father ordered him to rise; then he rang the bell twice. The door of the Gallery was thrown open; the trusted valet entered who had already become popular in the Vatican, and was known as Don Teofilo.
“Teofilo,” said the Pope, “is the light turned on once more in the Gallery?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Then go into the library, where you will find Monsignore. Request him to come in here, and wait for me. And see that another lamp is brought.”
When he had finished speaking, His Holiness rose. He moved towards the door of the Gallery, signing to Benedetto to follow him. Don Teofilo passed out by the opposite door. Sad omen! In the dark room, where so many flaming words, inspired by the Spirit, had flashed, only the little dying lamp remained.
That part of the Gallery of Inscriptions where the Pope and Benedetto now found themselves was in semi-darkness. But at one end a great lamp, with a reflector, shed its light upon the commemorative inscription on the right of the door leading to the Loggia of Giovanni da Udine. Between the long lines of inscriptions, which ran from one end of the gallery to the other, and watched this dark conflict of two living souls, like dumb witnesses well acquainted with the mysteries of that which is beyond the grave and of the last judgment, the Pope advanced slowly, silently, Benedetto following on his left, but a few paces behind him. He paused a moment near the torso representing the river Orontes, and gazed out of the window. Benedetto wondered if he were looking at the lights of the Quirinal, and his heart beat faster as he waited for a word. The word did not come. The Pope continued his slow, silent walk, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin resting on his breast. He paused again near the end of the gallery, in the light of the great lamp, and seemed undecided whether to turn back or to proceed. On the left of the lamp the door of the gallery opened upon a background of night, of moonlight, columns, glass, and marble pavement. The Pope turned in this direction, and descended the five steps. The moonlight fell slanting upon the pavement, streaked with the black shadows of the columns, and upon the end of the Loggia, cut off by the oblique profile of the deeper shadow, within which the bust of Giovanni was barely distinguishable.
The Pope walked on till he reached this shadow and paused in it, while Benedetto, who had stopped several paces behind that he might not seem to press him irreverently in his anxiety for an answer, was gazing at the moon, sailing midst the great clouds above Rome. As he gazed thus at the orb he asked himself, asked some Invisible One who might be near him, asked even the grave, sad face of the moon herself, whether he had dared too much, dared in the wrong way. But he repented of this doubt immediately. Was it he himself who had spoken? No, the words had come unsought to his lips, the Spirit had spoken. He closed his eyes in an effort of silent prayer, his face still raised towards the moon, as a blind man lifts his sightless eyes towards the silver splendour he divines.
A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He started and opened his eyes. It was the Pope, and the expression of his face told him that at last words had matured in his mind which satisfied it. Benedetto bent his head respectfully, ready to listen.