Blanka turned again to the open carriage door and plucked at the cloak of the person sitting within.
"You are fleeing from Rome, too, Countess," said she.

"I beg you to take me with you." But the carriage door was closed in her face.
"Countess, hear me!" she cried, in distress.

"Have pity on me! Don't leave me to perish in the streets!" Her petition was unheeded.

The footman drew her away and, as he turned to remount the vehicle, whispered three words in her ear: "_E il papa!_" It was the Pope, and he was fleeing! The spiritual ruler of the world, the king of kings, Heaven's viceroy upon earth, was flying for his life.
The judge fled and left the prisoner to her fate.

Blanka felt herself absolved from all her vows.