Yet, for those who still were willing to continue their religious devotions, still to regard the occasion more as a fast than a feast, the opportunity presented itself and was availed of by many. In every church in the city, in the cathedral above all, worshippers still knelt in prayer, though the hour grew late; at the confessionals hidden priests still listened to the sins--real or imaginary--of those who knelt before them. In that cathedral with, still lingering about it, the odour of the incense that had been used that day, with the organ still pealing gently through the aisles, while at intervals the _voix celeste_, in flute-like tones, seemed almost to utter the soul's cry, "Oh, Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere mihi!"--those confessors sat there, and would sit until midnight struck, to listen to and absolve all those who sought for pardon. "My son," came forth the muffled voice of one, his face being hidden in the impenetrable darkness in which he sat--a darkness still more profound since many of the lights in the great edifice had either been extinguished or had burnt themselves out, "the confession is not yet all made. Therefore, as yet there can be no absolution. Confess thy sins! Continue!" Kneeling outside, the stricken creature thus addressed, its wild hair streaming down its back and meeting with the other unkempt hair on cheek and chin, its eyes gleaming, like a hunted animal's, around and up and down the dusky aisles, and glancing at pillars as though fearing listeners behind each, went on: "My life, oh, holy father, was in his hands. He knew all; knew I was in France, and that he could give me up to justice to those whom I had wronged. Oh, father, _mea culpa, mea culpa!_ Absolve me! absolve me!" "Tell first thy sin," the muffled voice said again. "Thou hast not yet told all. Deceive not the Church. Confession first, then absolution." The penitent groaned and wrung his hands, threw back the locks from his face, and then, with that face pressed close to the confessional, hissed in a whisper: "Father, I was mad--am mad, I think. I was sore wrought; but half an hour before I had been assaulted and robbed by two villains of much wealth in jewels--and--and--I feared he would denounce me for my crimes, make my presence known. So, holy father--in my frenzy, in my fear--I struck him dead. I slew him. Have mercy on me, God!" "Where slew you him?" the priest's stifled voice continued. "There, father--without, by the west door. Oh, pardon, pardon, that here, on holy ground that should be sanctuary, I took his life!" It seemed almost to the wretch outside the confessional that the priest had uttered a gasp, had started in his seat, as he heard these words; yet presently he spoke again: "The victim being the young Scots officer found murdered more than three months past?" "'Tis so, holy father. 'Tis so. Oh, pardon! Pardon me! _Mea culpa, mea culpa!_"