“Then go to perdition—and quickly. Your pulse is so feeble that your hours are numbered.”
The King jumped up, fell on his knees before the physician, and prayed, “Lengthen my life.”
“No! I should like to abbreviate it, were you not the anointed of the Lord. You ought to have rat-poison.”
“Mercy! I confess that I have acted from bad motives; that I have only thought of myself; that I have never loved the people, but used them in order to put down the nobles; I grant that I made agreements and treaties with the deliberate purpose of breaking them; that I ... Yes, I am a poor sinful man, and my name will be forgotten; all that I have done will be obliterated....”
A stranger now appeared in the open door. It was a young man in the garb of the Minorites.
“Murderer!” screamed the King, and sprang up.
“No,” answered the monk, “I am he whom you called Vincent of Paula.”
“My deliverer! say a word—a single word of comfort.”
“Sire,” answered Vincent, “I have heard your confession, and will give you absolution in virtue of my office.”
“Speak.”