'I am wretched, your Reverence…I am wretched…wretched!'
'Benedicat te omnipotens Deus!' Instead of making the sign of the cross, the priest put his arm round the peasant and drew him on to the threshold.
'Calm yourself, brother, all will be well. God does not forsake His children.'
He kissed him and wiped his tears. With almost a howl the peasant threw himself at his feet.
'Now I don't mind if I die, or if I go to hell for my sins! I've had this consolation that your Reverence has taken pity on me. If I were to go to the Holy City on my knees, it would not be enough to repay you for your kindness.'
He touched the ground at the priest's feet as though it were the altar. The priest had to use much persuasion before he put on his sheepskin and consented to touch food.
'Take a good pull,' he said, pouring out the mead.
'I dare not, your Reverence.'
'Well, then I will drink to you.' He touched the glass with his lips.
The peasant took the glass with trembling hands and drank kneeling, swallowing with difficulty.