every one leaned forward a little, intent to listen.
His voice, mellow, clear, and resonant, yet gentle, has in it the quality of lofty and practical goodness that is in his face. It is a strong voice, too, with the strength of the man who could give an incorrigible lout a fine beating for the good of his soul; and it is what might be called a "brave" voice. A man with that kind of voice will not be afraid of anything that might happen to himself only. But, more than these things, it carries to one who hears it the benediction that exhales from the spirit of Pius X. to all the world, all the time.
While he was speaking, the great clock, high over his head, belled out the hour, four. So intent were the people not to lose a syllable that a thousand unconscious whispers reproved each solemn stroke, saying "'Sh!" to the bell.
Quite silently, and without so much as the sound of a foot scruffing the pavement, the crowd had drawn forward and closer, leaving no groups and open spaces, until, at last, they formed a dense press; so that when the Pope raised his arms for the benediction and the people knelt to receive his blessing, the whole mass surged back like one large receding wave.
The Chicagoans were expecting the congregation to file out in decorous silence after the benediction, and they were infinitely surprised, and delighted as well, when the people, rising, began to cheer again with all their hearts. The enthusiasm which had greeted the coming of the Pope burst out, many times intensified by the silence which had pent it up; and it was the greater because the feeling for the man had grown deeper every second. His coming had thrilled the people; at first sight they had liked him; now they loved him. Women were crying and laughing and shouting, "Viva il Papa!" at the same time; the handkerchiefs were out again, overhead, like whitecaps on a running sea. The music flared up, only to be drowned, and above everything sounded the regular, volleyed cheering of the students of the American College.
Pius X. smiled down upon it all from the red throne. One of his attendants had brought him a beautiful red hat and long red coat, for now the western hills were casting their cold shadows over the city.
The journalist had lost his charges in the confusion, and they were making their way, slowly, toward the arch through which they were to descend to the Bernini steps. The little bride, awed and full of many thoughts, walked lingeringly, her head over her shoulder, looking back wistfully. She pressed her husband's arm.
"Jim, you don't believe they'd hurt him, that Curia, or anybody, do you?"
"No, no; all that's just talk," answered the Chicagoan, reassuringly. "Some people like to talk that way; they think it makes them more interesting. Besides, I don't think a man that looks like the Pope would be apt to try to do anything he couldn't do. He looks pretty strong, to me."
"There's something so sad about him," she said, "something so sad and so kind!"
They reached the arch, and she stopped for a last look at the picture they would never see again. The racing sea of whitecaps was still beating up to the red wall of the platform; above it the banners tossed and rocked like stricken sails. The silver-shot blue of the late afternoon sky bent in like a canopy over the brown palace walls; the brilliant semicircle of officers, helmeted guards, and prelates glittered about the red throne, whereon sat the central figure of all the world—so it seemed at that moment—the good and simple-hearted old man in his gorgeous white and red, his kindly eyes beaming good-will from under the splendid hat.
"Ah, isn't he wonderful!" said the little bride; and then, in her girlish tenderness and admiration, she found the inadequate and incongruous word that is luminous with the human meaning the Pope of Rome had for her: "Oh, isn't he a dear!"
