But the carriage door was closed in her face.
"Countess, hear me!" she cried, in distress. "Have pity on me! Don't leave me to perish in the streets!"
Her petition was unheeded. The footman drew her away and, as he turned to remount the vehicle, whispered three words in her ear:
"È il papa!"
It was the Pope, and he was fleeing! The spiritual ruler of the world, the king of kings, Heaven's viceroy upon earth, was flying for his life. The judge fled and left the prisoner to her fate. Blanka felt herself absolved from all her vows. She plucked from her bosom the consecrated palm-leaf, tore it to pieces, and threw the fragments scornfully after the retreating carriage. Then she turned once more to Manasseh.
"Now take me with you whithersoever you will!" she cried, and she sank on his bosom and suffered him to clasp her in a warm embrace.