"The nightingale," said the Pope.
A mighty flood of melody floated down from some unseen place, in varying strains of divine music broken by many pauses, and running through every phase of jubilation, sorrow, and pain. It ended in a low wail of unutterable sadness, a pleading, yearning cry of anguish, which seemed to call on God Himself to hear. When it was over, and all was hushed around, the world seemed to have become void.
The Pope's feet shuffled on the gravel. "I shall never forget it," he said.
"It was wonderful," said the Capuchin.
"I was thinking of that poor lady," said the Pope. "Her pleading voice will ring in my ears as long as I live."
"Poor child!" said the Capuchin.
"After all, we could not have acted otherwise. Don't you think so, Father Pifferi? Considering everything, we could not possibly have acted otherwise."
"Perhaps we could not, your Holiness."
They turned the bend of an avenue, where the path under their feet rustled with the thick blossom shed from the overhanging Judas trees.
"Surely this is where the little mother bird used to be," said the Pope.