Like most Americans, we were desirous of seeing the pope, and Count Alvala obtained for us the necessary permission.  We were to be received on a Saturday at eleven.  We went in the prescribed costume, black silk, with the picturesque Roman veil thrown over the head.  From the foot of the Scala Regia, (Royal Staircase) one of the papal guard, in a motley suit which seemed one glare of black and yellow, escorted us 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?