On a small iron bench in the Pincian Hill gardens slept a holy man. His breviary had fallen from his lap to the grassy turf. Children gravely gathered beside him, for it seemed to them there could be no mistaking the man's grey hair, his glasses, his still, regular features. "Is it he?" whispered one to another.
"It is, it is he," they cried excitedly. "Il Papa, it is he, the Pope!"
The excitement awakened the sleeper, who cried out as he arose: "No, no, I am not the Pontiff! Deny it! Deny it!"