And he was striving to forget his thoughts by gazing upon the black immensity of Rome, longing to be steeped in night himself, total, healing night, the night in which one sleeps on for ever, knowing neither pain nor wretchedness, when all at once he became conscious that somebody was standing behind him; and thereupon, with a start, he turned round.
And there, indeed, stood Signor Squadra in his black livery.

Again he made one of his customary bows to invite the visitor to follow him, and again he walked on in front, crossing the little throne-room, and slowly opening the farther door.

Then he drew aside, allowed Pierre to enter, and noiselessly closed the door behind him.
Pierre was in his Holiness's bed-room.

He had feared one of those overwhelming attacks of emotion which madden or paralyse one.

He had been told of women reaching the Pope's presence in a fainting condition, staggering as if intoxicated, while others came with a rush, as though upheld and borne along by invisible pinions.