“I have confessed to you too often already,” replied Conrade, with a pale cheek and a faltering voice. “For God's sake, Grand Master, begone, and let me unfold my conscience to this holy man.”
“In what is he holier than I am?” said the Grand Master.—“Hermit, prophet, madman—say, if thou darest, in what thou excellest me?”
“Bold and bad man,” replied the hermit, “know that I am like the latticed window, and the divine light passes through to avail others, though, alas! it helpeth not me. Thou art like the iron stanchions, which neither receive light themselves, nor communicate it to any one.”
“Prate not to me, but depart from this tent,” said the Grand Master; “the Marquis shall not confess this morning, unless it be to me, for I part not from his side.”
“Is this YOUR pleasure?” said the hermit to Conrade; “for think not I will obey that proud man, if you continue to desire my assistance.”
“Alas,” said Conrade irresolutely, “what would you have me say? Farewell for a while—-we will speak anon.”
“O procrastination!” exclaimed the hermit, “thou art a soul-murderer!—Unhappy man, farewell—not for a while, but until we shall both meet no matter where. And for thee,” he added, turning to the Grand Master, “TREMBLE!”
“Tremble!” replied the Templar contemptuously, “I cannot if I would.”
The hermit heard not his answer, having left the tent.
“Come! to this gear hastily,” said the Grand Master, “since thou wilt needs go through the foolery. Hark thee—I think I know most of thy frailties by heart, so we may omit the detail, which may be somewhat a long one, and begin with the absolution. What signifies counting the spots of dirt that we are about to wash from our hands?”