“All the rest have deserted, even the women,” reported the Breaker, grimly. “In the Wartburg are you, Franz, Priest Clement, and your humble man-at-arms—not to mention the hermit down below.”
“The joust ends,” quoth My Lord. “The camp below is stirring; they attack us soon. Summon Clement. We must sound a parley with the saints, though he is an indifferent pursuivant.”
In the wide, empty court they found the priest. His eyes were red, his gait unsteady. He had been heartening himself in the cellar, but when they told what they wanted he sobered quickly.
“Woe is me! All my sins flock home. It is I that need absolution.”
“A priest is a priest, and at least we have none better,” urged Michael, “therefore haste! Soon they will beat down the postern.”
“Ay,” lamented Clement, “‘the validity of the sacrament depends not on the righteousness of the cleric,’ so runs the canon; but I am undone. None to absolve me, no masses, no indulgence! I am damned forever!”
“The hermit, the saint!” this from the slow Franz.
“The hermit! the saint!” so cried Clement; and they all ran down into the dungeon, dragged their prisoner up into the great hall, and tore off his fetters. He, expecting instant death, bowed his head in silent prayer, but did not try to escape. Then with the ruddy glare of dawn pouring through the eastern casement, those four wild men plumped on their knees before him.
“What do you wish?” said Jerome, opening his eyes.
“Oh, holy hermit, beloved of God,” prayed Clement, catching at the anchorite’s sheepskin, “absolve us, for we are nigh to death. We are sinful men, so hark to our confession.”