“I am trying to do so.”
“Cuthbert! canst thou forgive one who sought thy life with such animosity, spied upon thee, obtained thy secrets, and was even now on his road to betray thee? if thou canst, God may forgive me too, for He will not be less merciful than man.”
“Yes, I do forgive,” said Cuthbert, touched by this appeal, “as I hope to be forgiven.”
“Thou art better far than I: I should have passed by thee, too glad to get to Glastonbury first, and do the devil’s work. Cuthbert, I am dying, I cannot move my legs or body, only my head, and can hardly breathe.”
He spoke with short gasps.
“I was riding so fast—I came upon my hands—but pitched over again on my back—my spine came upon that sharp stone there—put there to punish me for my sins;—oh! for a priest—am I to die unhouselled,—unanointed,—unabsolved?”
“God can forgive without sacraments when they cannot be had, I have heard the Abbot say so in old times.”
“Ah! the Abbot, had I but followed his holy precepts; but I betrayed him to his enemies and followed Sir John, and he has led me into all kinds of sin—debauchery, riot, uncleanness, as if he loved to corrupt me.”
A change passed over the face of the dying youth.
“A strange numbness creeps over me,—only my head seems alive—my breathing is—so difficult—I choke—raise my head.”