“Here, dearest master,” spoke I, “and Providence has been good to me, for I have saved you.” Yet even in my delight I could not forget him who lay dying. In a few words I told how we had sore need of a priest. Quickly as I could I led him, still trembling with his joy, backward to where lay the Cardinal, under an imperial beech tree, with his sinful head on Ilsa’s lap. “A priest,” I announced simply, for the pallor on the wounded man’s face told how time was pressing, and Forli looked up at us with dim, wistful eyes, inviting the other, yet dreading. “Who is this man, a great noble?” asked Luther with a glance at the rich dress. “Dear Doctor,” I said, “you are to hear the confession of Giovanni Paratini, called Cardinale di Forli, _legatus a latere_ from the Holy See, who half an hour since lay ambushed here, to hurry you a prisoner to Rome. God adjudged otherwise.” “Who is this stranger?” cried Forli with a fearful gleam of intelligence. “Your Eminence has asked for a priest. I bring him the fairest pardoner in the world--Dr. Martin Luther.” A great shudder passed through the Cardinal’s frame; he raised his head from Ilsa’s lap. “Oh! blessed Mother of God,” he cried, “have you no mercy? Am I not to be damned for enough sins without having your curses added? I sought your liberty and life. They have taken mine. Is not the reckoning washed clean? Spare me--spare--” But here, with a tenderness infinite, Dr. Luther had dropped by the side of the dying. Gently as had Ilsa, he took the Italian’s hands in his own. And I thought as I stood gazing that Forli was happy even among dying sinners, soothed as he was by the noblest man and the noblest woman on God’s wide earth. “To curse you, dearest brother? And wherefore should I curse? Are you not one of Christ’s sheep, and had He pity for only the ninety-and-nine who never went astray? And shall I, the servant, keep my wrath when forgiveness is proffered by the Master-shepherd?” “Poetry; you are speaking of dreams,” cried the Cardinal, “hate has been hate, and vengeance vengeance since the world was. I care not what the Church says. Oh! my sins, my sins.” Dr. Luther raised his hand, entreating. “Withdraw all of you, all but the lady (he did not know Ilsa’s name as yet). Our Lord has said, ‘this kind came not out save by prayer.’” So we removed apart, every man bent on his own thoughts, until the pardoner spoke softly. “Return. The end is near.” Forli’s head still lay on Ilsa’s lap, but in his dim eyes there was now a little token of peace. He looked at me, as if trying to form a question, but strength was failing for utterance. Luther made the words for him. “He is seeking to know whether you forgive him also?” “Cardinale di Forli,” said I, “for whatsoever thing wherein you have wronged me I forgive you every whit. May God show unto you all the pity and love He has revealed to me.” A faint smile passed across the Italian’s face.