"Nothin' is a harrd wurrd! If he was my bhoy, the darlint, I'd cure him, aisy enough, so I wud."
Zillah's sobs ceased. "How?" she asked, her eyes gleaming strangely.
"I'd take him to the Pope, av course."
"The Pope!" repeated Zillah vaguely.
"Ay, the Holy Father! The ownly man in this wurruld that can take away the Evil Oi."
Zillah gasped. "Do you mean the Pope of Rome?"
She knew the phrase somehow, but what it connoted was very shadowy and sinister: some strange, mighty chief of hostile heathendom.
"Who else wud I be manin'? The Holy Mother I'd be for prayin' to meself; but as ye're a Jewess, I dursn't tell ye to do that. But the Pope, he's a gintleman, an' so he is, an' sorra a bit he'll moind that ye don't go to mass, whin he shpies that poor, weeshy, pale shrimp o' yours. He'll just wave his hand, shpake a wurrd, an' whisht! in the twinklin' of a bedposht ye'll be praisin' the Holy Mother."
Zillah's brain was whirling. "Go to Rome!" she said.
The Fire-Woman poised the poker.