As soon as
Derby entered, the venerable prelate arose. In his long _sottana_ of
violet he looked strangely diminutive and feminine; his pale skin and
mild eyes, and the soft white hair like a fringe beneath his velvet
cap--all gave an impression of great gentleness, an impression
heightened by contrast with the bare, white-washed walls and rigorously
meager furnishing of the cell-like room. With the courteous manner of
all southern countries, the archbishop placed the best chair for his
guest, and said smilingly:
"Do you speak Italian? Ah--I am glad you understand that language! My
French is very failing, and as for Inglese--_non lo conosco_. It is too
difficult at my age. If I were younger I should like to learn your
tongue." He said this with inimitable grace, and added with a gentle
inclination: "You are Americano, are you not? Your land has done much
for my people! But tell me, Signore, in what way may I serve you? Sua
Eccellenza il Principe Sansevero places you under our protection, but he
does not tell us what it is that has brought you to us." The archbishop,
leaning back in his chair, might so have sat for his portrait--his white
hands folded one over the other, and the great amethyst ring on the
third finger of his right hand seeming to reflect the paler shadings in
the folds of his gown.
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