"Oh, haven't you ever heard of the Pope, mother?"
"No," said Zillah, crimsoning in conscious invisibility.
"He's a sort of Chief Rabbi of the Roman Catholics. He wears a tiara. Kings and emperors used to tremble before him."
"And don't they now?" she asked apprehensively.
"No; that was in the Middle Ages—hundreds of years ago. He only had power over the Dark Ages."
"Over the Dark Ages?" repeated Zillah, with a fresh, vague hope.
"When all the world was sunk in superstition and ignorance, mother. Then everybody believed in him."
Zillah felt chilled and rebuked. "Then he no longer works miracles?" she said faintly.
Brum laughed. "Oh, I daresay he works as many miracles as ever. Of course thousands of pilgrims still go to kiss his toe. I meant his temporal power is gone—that is, his earthly power. He doesn't rule over any countries; all he possesses is the Vatican, but that is full of the greatest pictures by Michael Angelo and Raphael."
Zillah gazed open-mouthed at the prodigy she had brought into the world.