I let Moritz remonstrate with her, uttering, myself, not a word. He availed nothing. Away she went to the church with her two maids, both about as scared and fluttering as herself; and we sat gnawing our lips and thinking hard thoughts till they came back again. As imagined, the Gräfin had been as a lamb among wolves to the reverend indulgence sellers. She had purchased “graces” for herself, for her brother, for her departed mother, and above all for her father. The crafty vendors, at once divining her gentle blood, had pried out her true rank and taxed her ten good gulden per document, as the tariff duly provided for “abbots, great prelates, counts, barons, and others of the higher nobility,” for each of the precious letters. And there these letters were, most handsomely engrossed and sealed; whilst over her father’s the little lady poured especially, and read aloud to us the solemn words. “Our Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on thee, Eckbert von Blankenburg, and absolve thee by the merits of his most holy sufferings. And I in virtue of the apostolic power granted unto me, absolve thee from all ecclesiastical censures, judgments, and penalties that thou mayest have incurred, however great. I efface all the stains of weakness and traces of shame. I remit the pains thou wouldest have had to endure in purgatory. I reincorporate thee in the communion of the saints, so at the moment of death the gate of paradise shall be opened to thee. And if thou shouldest live long, this grace continueth unchangeable, until the time of thy end.” “But,” asked Moritz, none too enthusiastically, “must not our father go to confession before this indulgence becomes potent for him?” “There was, indeed,” admitted Ilsa, “a little said about a confession, but the Commissioner’s clerk was very certain the main thing was the ten gulden. In any case, I can get Father Augustin to absolve my father, and all will be well.” “So, dear Gräfin,” I said, I fear a little cynically, “you are quite satisfied of the strength and validity of these holy indulgences?” “You saw the Pope’s arms; you heard the preacher’s words. It _must_ be all true, else whom in God’s world are we poor maids to believe?” “Don’t press her,” growled Moritz in my ear; “drowning men will clutch at straws. For a little while she is being made very happy.”