The worthy priest was startled at this exhibition of grief, so much more intense than he was accustomed to see; for the penitent beat his breast, and humbled himself upon his knees in the most abandoned manner.
“Calm yourself, my son,” said the pastor, “and remember that mercy may be extended to the guiltiest of mortals.”
“Confiteor! Confiteor!” rapidly continued the sinner. “Oh, padre! Pity and forgive! Peccavi! Peccavi! O, Miseracordia!”
“Entrust your sin to the Representative of Heaven,” gently urged the Father, “and never despair of God’s mercy.”
“Not here! O, not here!” exclaimed the youth, springing to his feet and rushing to the door. “There are spies here—ears listening for the confession, which must be given to you alone.”
“Who dares to penetrate the secrets of the Confessional?” demanded the padre, his little black eyes twinkling with indignation.
“The count and his spies,” answered the youth. “We must leave the house—we must go forth into the night, for my soul is burthened with sin, and the load must be lifted. Come!” He seized the confessor by the robe and dragged him toward the door, sobbing “Peccavi! Peccavi!” all the time.
“But, my son,” hesitated the priest, “the count is—”
“Come—come—come!” repeated the penitent, impatiently; a part of his grief giving way before his haste to be absolved. “We can return before you will be wanted. I cannot endure to wait! O, pity and forgive!”
The good Father, like most indolent men, was very slow of decision at all times; and now he was carried away by the torrent of grief, and the impatience for absolution, which seemed to flow from the consciousness of some great crime. Half inclined to refuse, and yet too undecided to act with promptness, he suffered himself to be dragged from the room, and through the door into the open air. Here they were brought to a sudden halt: a ranchero stepped before them, and presented his musket. But such an indignity at once restored the Father to his dignity.