Jerome frowned sternly.
“I am no priest,” he shot back, nigh in wrath; “you who call yourself priest hear these men’s confessions, and confess yourself to God. I am no intercessor for you.”
“Not so,” cried My Lord Baron, beginning to beat his breast; “you would not have us lost forever!”
“I am sinful like yourself. Refrain from sacrilege.”
“Give attention, greybeard,” admonished Michael, laying his battle-axe significantly beside him; “you have the ear of St. Peter and of St. Gabriel, and have it better than most bishops too. Bid them make us a smooth road to heaven, or it is the worse for you—by Our Lady of Lichtenfels—”
“Blaspheme not the Mother of God,” thundered Jerome, as immovable as granite, “nor think by carnal threatenings to stir me.”
“Confess first,” advised Clement, sagely; “then we have but to wring ‘absolvo’ out from his teeth, and we can sell our lives dear, fighting like the Christians that we are.”
A rending crash without gave weight to his counsels.
“The postern yields,” groaned Ulrich; “let us confess.”
So all four beat their breasts, repeating their mea culpas; then the Baron spoke first:—