“Alexander the Sixth, I dare say,” said I; “the greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the pope system ever had—so his conscience was not always still. I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron.”
“I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope,” said the man in black; “it is true he brought the word, which is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very fond of calling the church by that name, and other popes have taken it up. She will allow you to call her by it, if you belong to her.”
“I shall call her so,” said I, “without belonging to her, or asking her permission.”
“She will allow you to treat her as such, if you belong to her,” said the man in black; “there is a chapel in Rome, where there is a wondrously fair statue—the son of a cardinal—I mean his nephew—once—Well, she did not cut off his head, but slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go.”
“I have read all about that in ‘Keysler’s Travels,’” said I; “do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair of tongs, unless to seize her nose.”
“She is fond of lucre,” said the man in black; “but does not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite,” and he took out a very handsome gold repeater.
“Are you not afraid,” said I, “to flash that watch before the eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle?”
“Not before the eyes of one like you,” said the man in black.
“It is getting late,” said I; “I care not for perquisites.”
“So you will not join us?” said the man in black.