The Pope bent and graciously raised her to her feet.

He laid his hand on her head, and spoke to her words of comfort which she enshrined in the inmost sanctuary of her heart.
When the audience was over and our friends had retired, Gabriel Zimandy could not have given any coherent account of what had passed, nor, indeed, was he in the least certain whether he had unburdened himself of his Latin speech, or stuck fast at the _beatissime pater_.

Madam Dormandy, however, was sure to enlighten him as soon as they regained their hotel.

He knew at least that the written petition which he had carried in his hand was no longer on his person; hence he must have accomplished his main object.
Madam Dormandy alone seemed to have kept her wits about her through it all.

She was able to tell how the Pope, while Zimandy was stammering some sort of gibberish,--Hebrew or Greek, for aught she knew,--had taken his snuff-box from a pocket behind, and smilingly helped himself to a pinch of snuff.