So we went on, till the wheels rolled into the court of the Vatican. A few torches made the great pile of buildings rise darkly above us. A subaltern of the Swiss guards threw open the door. I descended with the captain. Rocca was there already, having put his horses at their speed, and at a signal from him my custodian conducted me up the long staircases, and along the half-lighted galleries, until we came to a line of yawning gentlemen-chamberlains and flunkies outside the private apartments of His Holiness; and after some delay Messere Paris di Grassis, the Master of Ceremonies, and two other green-cassocked ushers, came forward to demand our wishes. I let Rocca do the negotiating. The worthy Paris’s protests against disturbing the Pope were presently beaten down; but before we were admitted another group had joined us,--my accuser, Bari, in civilian’s dress, and still flushed and excited, besides a squad of soldiers with the valiant Orosi pinioned in their midst. The Archbishop’s smooth, olive face darkened ominously when he glanced at me, but Fabriano clapped a kindly hand on my shoulder, and we exchanged no defiances. Then with a little rumble the doors were thrown open, and Monsignore Paris was calling:-- “You may enter, Signori.” The scene was not unfamiliar. The high, brilliantly frescoed room was lighted by a score of lamps swinging from silver chains, a dozen prelates and court gentlemen were lounging on divans around the chamber, and conversing in polite whispers. In the centre of the room was a round table covered with white velvet, about which were three low chairs occupied by Forli and two other cardinals. On the table lay cards and a goodly pile of golden scudi. Directly facing the door, upon a high armchair, sat Leo de’ Medici. “His Eminence of Rocca, Monsignore di Bari and the Conte di Palaestro,” announced Paris’s clear voice, “crave audience with His Holiness upon a matter admitting no delay.” We entered in a little group and stood in respectful attention until the Pope--disturbed in the dealing of a new game of his favorite _primiera_--could recover from his slight surprise. The Maltese poodle at his knee rose, begging and barking for one of the bonbons on the stand at his lord’s elbow. The Pope stared at us, his near-sighted, glassy eyes starting prominently out of his large, florid face. His light hair was covered by a white skullcap, and from under his red stole peeped the scarlet slippers with the golden cross on the right foot. It took a minute for him to fidget his thick body in the armchair, reach with his much beringed hand a dainty to the dog, and fumble for his eyeglass. He surveyed us briefly, and at last in his usual brisk and pleasant manner began:--