to the door
of a long corridor, known as the Loggia of Raphael, where we were
received by a higher official in rich array of crimson velvet. About
seventy persons were seated in rows, facing each other, along this
gallery, nearly all laden with rosaries to be blessed by the Holy
Father. We waited till my neck ached with looking up at the exquisite
frescoes, fresh and tender in coloring as if new from the hand of the
master, when the pope appeared, attended by a cardinal on each hand. We
fell on our knees instantly, but not till I had seen an old man's face
so sweet and venerable as to make this act of etiquette a spontaneous
homage. He passed slowly down the line, saying a word or two to each,
and extending his hand, white and soft like a woman's, to be kissed.

Pausing by the young count, who was kneeling beside me, he said
impressively, "Courage and faith have always been attributes of the
house of Alvala. Your fathers were good children of the Church, and you,
my son, will not be wanting in any of the qualities of your race."

When he had passed us we rose from our knees, and I could observe him
more closely. He wore a close-fitting white cap on his finely-shaped
head; a long robe of white woolen cloth buttoned up in front, with a
small cape of the same material; a white sash, gold-embroidered at the
end; a long gold chain around his neck, to which was attached a large
golden cross; a seal ring on the third finger of his right hand; and red
slippers. Soft snowy locks fell from under the white skull-cap over a
noble forehead, which years and trials had left unwrinkled. Black
eyebrows and the soft dark eyes made a pleasant contrast to the
whiteness of hair and brow, and his smile was so sweet and winning that
I scarcely wondered to see two Catholic ladies prostrate themselves and
kiss his feet and the hem of his white garment with a rapture of
devotion from which his attendants with difficulty rescued him. He
lingered longest by a pretty boy four or five years old, and there was a
pathos in the caressing, clinging touch of his hand as it rested on the
child's head that called to mind an old love-story of the handsome Count
Mastai Ferretti when he wore the uniform of an officer of the guards,
and had not yet thought of priestly robe or papal crown. I wonder if he
remembers the fair English girl now?

Having completed the round, he made a brief address, the purport of
which was that he was about to give us his blessin