“Follow me,” said Lorenzo, preceding the pope, and leading him to a more solitary and better screened part of the garden. “Now stoop a little and creep through here, and then we are at the place.” The pope carefully followed the directions of his leader, and worked his way through the obstruction of the myrtle-bushes until he arrived at a small circular place, in the centre of which, shaded by tall olive-trees, was a turf-seat surrounded by tendrils of ivy, and before which was a small table of wood, yet retaining its natural covering of bark. “See, this is my surprise!” said Lorenzo. Ganganelli stood silent and motionless, with folded hands. A deep emotion was visible in his gentle mien, and tears rolled slowly down over his cheeks. “Well, is it not well copied, and true to nature?” asked Lorenzo, whose eyes beamed with satisfaction. “My favorite spot in the garden of the Franciscan convent!” said Ganganelli in a tone trembling with emotion. “Yes, yes, Lorenzo, you have represented it exactly, you know well enough what gives me pleasure! Accept my thanks, my dear good brother.” And, while giving his hand to the monk, his eye wandered with gentle delight over the place, with its beautiful trees and green reposing bank, and thoughtfully rested upon each individual object. “So was it,” he murmured low, “precisely so; yes, yes, in this place have I passed my fairest and most precious hours; what have I not thought and dreamed as a youth and as a man, how many wishes, how many hopes have there thrilled my bosom, and how few of them have been realized!” “But one thing has been realized,” said Lorenzo, “greater than all you could have dreamed or hoped! Who would ever have thought it possible that the poor, unknown Franciscan monk would become the greatest and most sublime prince in the whole world, the father of all Christendom? That is, indeed, a happiness that brother Clement, upon his grass-bank in the Franciscan convent, could never have expected!”