Those had been the words the boy had used to the Pope, the Head of the Church, when he had dared to speak his thoughts openly before that chiefest man of all in Rome!
"Come out with me!"
"Now, in the darkness and the rain?" asked the Cardinal wonderingly.
"You wish it? Then I will come!"
Manuel said nothing further, but simply turned and led the way. They passed out of the little tenement house they inhabited into the dark cold street,—and the door closed with a loud bang behind them, shut to by the angry wind. The rain began to fall more heavily, and the small slight figure of the waif and stray he had befriended seemed to the Cardinal to look more lonely and piteous than ever in the driving fog and darkness.
"Whither would you go, my child?" he asked gently. "You will suffer from the cold and storm—"
"And you?" said Manuel. "Will you not also suffer? But you never think of yourself at all!—and it is because you do not think of yourself that I know you will come with me to-night!—even through a thousand storms!—through all danger and darkness and pain and trouble,—you will come with me! You have been my friend for many days—you will not leave me now?"
"Neither now nor at any time," answered Bonpre firmly and tenderly. "I will go with you where you will! Is it to some sad home you are taking me?—some stricken soul to whom we may give comfort?"
Manuel answered not,—but merely waved his small hand beckoningly, and passed along up the street through the drifting rain, lightly and aerially as though he were a spirit,—and the Cardinal possessed by some strange emotion that gave swiftness to his movements and strength to his will, followed. They met scarcely a soul. One or two forlorn wayfarers crossed their path—a girl in rags,—then a man half-drunk and reeling foolishly from side to side. Manuel paused, looking at them.
"Poor sad souls!" he said. "If we could see all the history of their lives we should pity them and not condemn!"
"Who is it that condemns?" murmured Bonpre gently.