"Can't you trust me, my child? Don't you know the Holy Father? Only give me some hope that these statements are untrue, and the Holy Father is ready to withstand all evil influences against you, and face the world in your defence."
Roma felt as if something would snap within her brain. "I cannot say ... I do not know," she faltered.
"But have you any uncertainty, my daughter? If you have the least reason to believe that these statements are slanders of malicious imaginations, tell me so, and I will give your husband the benefit of the doubt."
Roma rose to her feet, but she held on to the edge of the table that stood by her side, rigid, quivering, frail and silent. The Pope looked up at her with weary eyes, and continued in a caressing tone:
"If unhappily you have no doubt that your husband is engaged in dangerous enterprises, can you not dissuade him from them?"
"No," said Roma, struggling with her tears, "that is impossible. Whether he is right or wrong, it is not for me to sit in judgment upon him. Besides, long ago, before we were married, I promised that I would never stand between him and his work, and I never can—never."
"But if he loves you, my child, would he not wish for your sake to avoid the danger?"
"I can't ask him. I told him to go on without thinking of me, and I would take care of myself whatever happened."
Her eyes were now shining with her tears. The Pope patted the hand on the table.
"Can you not at least go to him and warn him, and thus leave him to judge for himself, my daughter?"