Roma did not reply. Her head sunk lower and lower, and seeing this, the Pope rose again, and standing over her he cried:
"Tell me! Tell me, I command you! You wish me to believe that it was he, not you, who committed the crime! Out on you! out on you!"
But having said this in a hoarse and angry voice, he passed his arm over his eyes as if to brush away the clouds that had gathered there, and muttered in a broken and feeble way, "O God, Thou knowest my foolishness. I am poor and needy. Make haste unto me, O God! Hide not Thy face from Thy servant, for I am in trouble."
Roma was crying at the Pope's feet, and after a moment he became aware of it, and stooped to lift her up.
"My child! My poor, poor child! You must bear with me. I am an old man now. Only a weak old man. My brain is confused. Things run together in it. But I understand. I think I understand."
She rose and kissed his trembling hand. He was still holding the warrant.
"Where did this paper come from?"
"The English Ambassador brought it this morning. He had found it in our rooms in the Piazza Navona."
"The place where the crime was committed?"
"Yes."