I was so overcome I could not help bursting into tears, through which I sobbed: "Dear, dear Father Urbani. I will go with you anywhere, but I will never take a Mule or a Horse!"
"My dear Giovannini," said he, "the only Horses we will think about are those for the shafts of our coach. Be ready after the siesta, and let me see a more smiling face when next you meet me."
So take me he did, and was so sumptuously received at all the great houses he visited—and I as well—that I soon forgot my terrors.
Father Urbani was a gentleman of birth, connected with many of the highest families, and whatever his real name was, he well deserved that of his profession, for no one could be more urbane than he, and his softness of voice always brought my dear father before me. He was full of drolleries, too, for, when we visited St. Peter's, he told me of the German in Rome who had never seen the church, though he had started several times with that in view, but always found the sun too hot and the taverns too cool for the long walk, and so kept out of the one and in, the other until his day was done before his pilgrimage was accomplished. At length, on being rallied by his friends, he made a great effort and passed safely by his dangers, saw the great church, and returned full of satisfaction. "But," says he, "I think it strange that they should put St. Peter on horseback before the high altar!"—a speech which mightily piqued the curiosity of his friends, until they discovered he had been no farther than the loggia, and had taken the statue of the Roman Emperor Constantino for that of the Saint.
On the third day of our travels we went into the Church of the Santi Apostoli, and there Father Urbani drew my attention to a man kneeling in prayer before a tomb near the high altar. Though I saw nothing more than a dark velvet coat, the soles of his shoes, and part of his powdered head, I asked, with a sudden curiosity, who it might be.
"His enemies call him The Pretender, his friends, the Chevalier de St. George, but many hold he is properly styled His Majesty, James the Third of England," said Father Urbani, quietly, but very dryly; at which my heart broke into a rapid tattoo of loyalty in honour of the House whose fortunes my family had always followed, and for whose sake my Uncle Scottos had sacrificed himself.
We were for withdrawing quietly, and had almost reached the door, when the King finished his devotions and came slowly down the church—a thin, dark-visaged man, very grave and sad-looking, I thought, but his carriage was noble, and the broad riband on his breast looked in keeping. He stopped when he reached us and spoke to Father Urbani, who, to my surprise, did not seem at all put out, and made no greater reverence to the King than he would to any noble of high rank, answering him in his soft, quiet voice, as though speaking to an ordinary man. I only remembered this afterwards, when telling Angus of the meeting. At the time I stood like one enchanted, devouring the King with my eyes.
At last he noticed my absorption, and said, still in Italian, "Ah! an English lad, I see?"
"No, Your Majesty," I made bold to answer, "a Highlander." At which he smiled, gravely, and held out his hand, which I knelt and kissed with my heart on my lips.
We waited until the King had left the church, making his way on foot and alone to his palace alongside, when we took coach again and drove towards the College. I could see that Father Urbani did not wish to be disturbed, for there was a troubled look on his face, so I said nothing, but leaned back with my head full of the glorious vision I had just seen. Had any one dared say there was nothing in meeting with a sad-faced, elderly man alone in an empty church—a man who claimed to be a king and had no throne, who claimed to be a king and had no country—I would have held it little short of blasphemy. To me he was a martyr for honour's sake, the true head of my nation and the hope of all loyal hearts. So I leaned back, I say, with these things running riot through my head, jumbled with old stories of Killicrankie and 1715, with old songs I had heard from a child, and with thoughts of my Uncle Scottos, until I was suddenly brought back to earth again by one of Father Urbani's thin old hands quietly closing over mine.