The voice, with its southern ring, betrayed emotion: Benedetto rose, and answered: "From the bronze portal as far as a spot which I cannot locate, I was accompanied by the priest who was here with Your Holiness; from thence I came alone." "Were you familiar with the Vatican?
Did they tell you, you would find me here ?" When Benedetto had answered that, years ago, he had paid a single visit to the museums of the Vatican, the Logge, and the Gallery of Inscriptions; that on that occasion he had not reached the Logge from the courtyard of San Damaso; that he had had no idea where he should find the Sovereign Pontiff, the Pope was silent for a moment; absorbed in thought.

Presently he said, tenderly, affectionately, pointing to a chair opposite him: "Be seated, my son." Had Benedetto not been absorbed in contemplation of the Pope's ascetic and gentle face, he would have looked about him not without surprise, while his august interlocutor was engaged in gathering together some papers which were scattered upon the little table.

This was indeed a strange reception-room, a dusty chaos of old pictures, old books, old furniture.

One would have pronounced it the ante-room of some library, of some museum, which was being rearranged.

But he was lost in contemplation of the Pope's face, that thin, waxen face, which wore an ineffable expression of purity and of kindliness.