“Knowing what thou art thyself,” said Conrade, “it is blasphemous to speak of pardoning another.”
“That is not according to the canon, Lord Marquis,” said the Templar; “thou art more scrupulous than orthodox. The absolution of the wicked priest is as effectual as if he were himself a saint—otherwise, God help the poor penitent! What wounded man inquires whether the surgeon that tends his gashes has clean hands or no? Come, shall we to this toy?”
“No,” said Conrade, “I will rather die unconfessed than mock the sacrament.”
“Come, noble Marquis,” said the Templar, “rouse up your courage, and speak not thus. In an hour's time thou shalt stand victorious in the lists, or confess thee in thy helmet, like a valiant knight.”
“Alas, Grand Master,” answered Conrade, “all augurs ill for this affair, the strange discovery by the instinct of a dog—the revival of this Scottish knight, who comes into the lists like a spectre—all betokens evil.”
“Pshaw,” said the Templar, “I have seen thee bend thy lance boldly against him in sport, and with equal chance of success. Think thou art but in a tournament, and who bears him better in the tilt-yard than thou?—Come, squires and armourers, your master must be accoutred for the field.”
The attendants entered accordingly, and began to arm the Marquis.
“What morning is without?” said Conrade.
“The sun rises dimly,” answered a squire.
“Thou seest, Grand Master,” said Conrade, “nought smiles on us.”