“What about, my son?”
“Myself. Now I see that I did wrong to ask for your protection. You thought I was innocent, and there was something I did not tell you. When I said I was guilty before God and man, you did not understand what I meant. Holy Father, I meant that I had committed murder…”
The Pope looked at the young face, cut deep with lines of despair, and his heart yearned over it.
“Sit down, my son. Let us think. Though you did not tell me of the assassination, I soon knew all about it… Partly in self-defence, you say?”
“That is so, but I do not urge it as an excuse. And if I did, who else knows anything about it?”
“Is there nobody who knows?”
“One, perhaps. But it is my wife, and she could have no interest in saving me now, even if I wanted to be saved… I have read her letters.”
“If I were to tell you it is not so, my son—that your wife is still ready to sacrifice herself for your safety…”
“But that is impossible, your Holiness. There are so many things you do not know.”