earth. But, by God's robe, the man could
write fast. In a moment he had filled a sheet of parchment with the
short, unadorned black strokes of a chancery hand. Simon estimated it
would take him the better part of a morning to write that much. Of
course Pope Urban, being a churchman all his life, had a good deal more
practice at writing.

Urban folded the parchment and poured melted red wax from the black
pitcher to seal it. He took the large gold ring from his finger and
stamped it into the wax. Without looking around, he handed the letter to
his majordomo.

"To Duke Alberto Baglione at Perugia by our best horses," said Pope
Urban. "Have Pietro Pettorini carry it; he is our fastest man."

"Holiness," said the majordomo diffidently, taking the letter, "the
Count de Gobignon wishes to see you."

"Ah!" Urban half turned in his chair to look at Simon. Simon saw that
the pope's wrinkled face was a deep pink, and his eyes glittered. Loose
strands of gray hair escaping from under his hood quivered as his head
shook with a slight, constant tremor. Simon had heard that men sometimes
rallied in the final stages of an illness, before the slide into
darkness. That, perhaps, accounted for the pope's color and energy.
Simon's heart ached for the old man. This was the spiritual father of
the world, and his troubles, troubles Simon had in part brought to him,
were aiding whatever disease was destroying him.

"Simon de Gobignon!" Urban cried, raising bony hands in benediction. "If
you had not come to me, I should have sent for you." His pale blue eyes
shifted from side to side, and Simon felt even more pain for him.

_This man should not think of traveling. It will kill him._

Urban half stood, and his majordomo rushed past Simon to turn his chair
so that the pope could face his visitor. He was sitting in a simple
straight-back chair without arms.

Simon stepped into the room and dropped to one knee. The pope extended
his trembling right hand, and Simon kissed his gold Fisherman's Ring. On
its circular face was an engraving of a bearded man whom Simon guessed
must be Saint Peter, casting a net from the stern of a boat.

Seen close at hand and without the tall tiara and the crozier and the
heavy robes of office, Urban was very short. Simon wondered whether he
had always been a little man or whether age and the strains of his
office had shrunk him.

"Stand up, Monseigneur le Comte, s'il vous plait," said the pope,
changing to