Other pastors were doing all they could for their own flocks, but Monsignor Mastai’s zeal and charity were so conspicuous as to draw down the special and enthusiastic commendation of Gregory XVI, who immediately promoted him to the Archbishopric of Imola, a far more important see than that of Spoleto. Naturally the Spoleto people were frantic at the idea of losing him, and sent a deputation of their most notable citizens to Rome to beg the Pope to change his mind. But they failed in their object, and at the appointed time their Archbishop received their last farewells—a tumult of tears and blessings—and set out for his new post, stopping on the road at Loreto to ask for Heaven’s assistance, as he had asked for it in his early youth, when his malady appeared to be barring his way to the priesthood. He found even more to do at Imola than he had at Spoleto in the matters of reorganization and reform, and he threw himself into the work with all the ardour of his brave, energetic soul, encountering many trials, but coming victoriously through them all. Of course he made bitter enemies, for his boundless charity to the poor broke out in a blaze of indignation whenever he found that they were being oppressed or defrauded. In such cases instant retribution overtook the offender, and no amount of apparent contrition could ever obtain office for him again if it depended on the decision of the Archbishop. The secret societies, following their usual programme, had decided to “remove” Monsignor Mastai without delay. He was sitting in his study one morning when his faithful old servant, Baladelli, who had accompanied him everywhere, entered to say that a lady, who seemed in a great hurry, begged him to grant her a few minutes’ “conversation.” “Ask her to wait a little,” said the Archbishop, as he rose and went into his private chapel. Some time passed and the servant came and found his master on his knees. “Monsignore, will you not speak to that lady now?” he asked. “Tell her to wait a little longer,” was the reply. The man retreated, to return more than once. Monsignore, still on his knees, always gave the same message, and at last Baladelli, after the manner of old servants, lost his temper and exclaimed, “For goodness’ sake come and speak with that poor woman! She has been waiting for hours.” Then the Archbishop looked around at him and said, very quietly, “I speak with the living, not with the dead.” The frightened domestic rushed into the ante-room where the petitioner had been left, and beheld a tumbled heap on the floor. Calling his fellow-servants to help him, he raised it up. The heavy veil had slipped from the face. The “lady” was a man, with a great sharp knife concealed in his feminine garments. He was stone dead.