The robe was rather short, and Conrad noticed with dismay that his laced white shoes showed beneath.
"Saint Dominick, curse him, but I forgot to take his sandals!" he cried in a passion.
But passion did not avail him; he must go barefoot.
"Bleeding feet will complete the disguise," he thought bitterly, and flung off his shoes and stockings.
The robe was rather dirty; Count Conrad's fastidious nostrils fancied it smelled of the roadside, "where the old wretch has often slept, I warrant," he said, then crossed himself in contrition at the sacrilege.
Next he hung the rosary and crucifix about his neck—it was hatefully heavy—and the wallet about his shoulder. The strap galled him, and the wretched Count moaned at his fate.
He was bound to admit he had brought it on himself; he would carry it through; and with a truly heroic air he strapped the velvet doublet on the horse, and taking the bridle, made his way back toward the road.
On reaching it he flung the reins over the steed's back, and turned him adrift toward Brescia; then, with resolution in his heart and tears in his eyes, Count Conrad von Schulembourg, with feet bare on the stony road, made painful progress toward Milan.