“None but a Pope can do that.”
“Then I must take it with me to the grave.”
“Hark ye, fellow—I am Julius; I am the Pope.”
“It is his Holiness indeed, Balatrone,” cried the friar.
The man screamed and writhed.
“It is the foam of swine, poisoned with arsenic and then whipped to frenzy. Absolve me, Holy Father, absolve me!”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Pontiff, in the voice of a long-covetous man satisfied.
He heard a choke behind him, and turned to find the girl close by. His face softened. “What, little Hebe,” he said. “Wouldst like to come and serve the wine to Papa Julius? But, wait.”
He turned, with hand uplifted, to give the blessing; but Balatrone was dead.