“I want to be placed directly in front of the balcony,” he had said, “where I can see the Pope's face. I shall recognize his face at once. Who knows but he may look at me? If he should, then I shall think that at last God looks at me.”
The crowd hushed itself, as the golden cross came in sight, and after it the crowned and mitred heads, all in white save one. And that one, under its glittering tiara, wore a crown of snowy hair dearer to Catholic hearts than gold or jewels. On this central face the eyes of the sick man fixed themselves with a wide and imploring gaze, and his hands stretched themselves out, as if to beg that he might not be forgotten.
“Do not fear!” Annette whispered in his ear. “The Holy Father knows all your story, and pities you; and there is one standing beside him who will remind him that you are here. He will know just where you are.”
To the waiting and trembling penitent this was like a whisper from his good angel. He associated no other thought with the voice.
The silence deepened till nothing could be heard but the swift wings of a bird flying over the piazza, and the soft “zitti! zitti!” of the fountains, and the heart that each one in that vast crowd felt beat in his bosom.
Surely that mild and blessed face was turned his way! the penitent thought. Surely, surely, the Holy Father had looked at him, searching the crowd one instant with his eyes, and finding him!
Then a single voice was heard—the only voice in the universe, it seemed.
“May the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, in whose power and authority we confide, intercede for us with the Lord.”
“Amen!” chanted the choir, as though the world had found voice.
Again the single voice: