The Capuchin removed his skull-cap with an uneasy hand, and walked some paces without speaking.
"Will he come, your Holiness?"
"If he thinks I hold the secret on which his life depends, assuredly he will come."
"But you are sovereign as well as Pope—is it possible for you to receive him?"
"I will receive him as the King of Sardinia, the King of Italy, if you will, but not as the King of Rome."
The Capuchin took his coloured handkerchief from his sleeve and rolled it in his palms, which were hot and perspiring.
"But, Holy Father," he said, "what will be the good? Say that all difficulties of etiquette can be removed, and you can meet as man to man, as David Leone and Albert Charles—why will the King come? Only to ask you to put pressure upon your informant to give more information."
The Pope drew himself up on the gravel path and smote his breast with indignation. "Never! It would be an insult to the Church," he said. "It is one thing to expect the Holy Father to do his duty as a Christian even to his enemy, it is another thing to ask him to invade the sanctity of a private confidence."
The Capuchin did not reply, and the two old men walked on in silence. As the light softened the swallows increased their clamour, and song-birds began to call from neighbouring trees. Suddenly a startled cry burst from the foliage, and, turning quickly, the Pope lifted up the cat which, as usual, was picking its way at his heels.
"Ah, Meesh, Meesh! I've got you safely this time.... It was the poor mother-bird again, I suppose. Where is her nest, I wonder?"