"I must. It is my duty. How could I lay my head on my pillow and not do it? But I will do it discreetly. I will commit no one, and this poor lady shall remain unknown."
The venerable old men, each leaning on his stick, walked down a path lined by clipped yews, shaded by cypresses, and almost overgrown with crocus, anemone, and violet. Suddenly from the bushes there came a flutter of wings, followed by the scream of a bird, and in a moment the Pope's cat had leapt on to a marble which stood in the midst of the jungle. It was an ancient sarcophagus, placed there as a fountain, but the spring that had fed it was dry, and in its moss-grown mouth a bird had made its nest. The cat was about to pounce down on the eggs when the Pope laid hold of it.
"Ah, Meesh, Meesh," he said, "what an anarchist you are, to be sure!... Monsignor!"
"Yes, your Holiness," said the chamberlain, coming up behind.
"Take this gatto rosso back to the carriage, and keep him in domicilio coatto until we come."
The Monsignor laughed and carried off the cat, and the Pope put his mittened hand gently on the little speckled eggs.
"Poor things! they're warm. Listen! That's the mother bird screaming in the tree. Hark! She's watching us, and waiting for us to go. How snugly she thought she kept her secret."
The Capuchin drew a long breath. "Yes, nature has the same cry for fear in all her offspring."
"True," said the Pope.
"It makes me think of that poor girl this morning."