A little blood even had suffused the snowy whiteness of the Pontiff's face whilst his eyes shone out yet more brilliantly.

And as soon as he saw the young man speechless at his feet, shaken by those sobs which seemed to be wrenching away his heart, he became anxious and leant forward: "Calm yourself, my son, raise yourself," he said.
But the sobs still continued, still flowed forth, all reason and respect being swept away amidst that distracted plaint of a wounded soul, that moan of suffering, dying flesh.
"Raise yourself, my son, it is not proper," repeated Leo XIII.

"There, take that chair." And with a gesture of authority he at last invited the young man to sit down.
Pierre rose with pain, and at once seated himself in order that he might not fall.

He brushed his hair back from his forehead, and wiped his scalding tears away with his hands, unable to understand what had just happened, but striving to regain his self-possession.
"You appeal to the Holy Father," said Leo XIII.

"Ah! rest assured that his heart is full of pity and affection for those who are unfortunate.
But that is not the point, it is our holy religion which is in question.
I have read your book, a bad book, I tell you so at once, the most dangerous and culpable of books, precisely on account of its qualities, the pages in which I myself felt interested.