The wounded youth muttered feebly, “Water! Water!” There was a spring close by; Cuthbert brought clear sparkling water in a flask which he carried; the poor wretch drank eagerly, and then suddenly recognized Cuthbert. “What, Cuthbert! can it be thou! dost thou forgive me then? since I am dying, and can harm thee no more.” “I am trying to do so.” “Cuthbert! canst thou forgive one who sought thy life with such animosity, spied upon thee, obtained thy secrets, and was even now on his road to betray thee? if thou canst, God may forgive me too, for He will not be less merciful than man.” “Yes, I do forgive,” said Cuthbert, touched by this appeal, “as I hope to be forgiven.” “Thou art better far than I: I should have passed by thee, too glad to get to Glastonbury first, and do the devil’s work. Cuthbert, I am dying, I cannot move my legs or body, only my head, and can hardly breathe.” He spoke with short gasps. “I was riding so fast--I came upon my hands--but pitched over again on my back--my spine came upon that sharp stone there--put there to punish me for my sins;--oh! for a priest--am I to die unhouselled,--unanointed,--unabsolved?” “God can forgive without sacraments when they cannot be had, I have heard the Abbot say so in old times.” “Ah! _the Abbot_, had I but followed his holy precepts; but I betrayed him to his enemies and followed Sir John, and he has led me into all kinds of sin--debauchery, riot, uncleanness, as if he loved to corrupt me.” A change passed over the face of the dying youth. “A strange numbness creeps over me,--only my head seems alive--my breathing is--so difficult--I choke--raise my head.” A painful struggle succeeded. Cuthbert had been taught the rudiments of surgery and he knew the truth; the spine was broken just below the neck, and he saw that suffocation would be the end, from inability to inflate the lungs, or to inhale the air. “Pray! ask the saints to intercede for thee! call upon the Blessed Mother! nay upon the Incarnate Son Himself!” said Cuthbert after the teaching of his day. “Sancte Nicolæ ora pro me--Cuthbert hasten to Glastonbury--Sir John--the secret chamber--midnight--beware--omnes sancti--orate pro me peccatore.” And so he died. “I thank God his blood is not upon my head, that He Who has said ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ has Himself decided the question between us: poor Nicholas! yes, I can forgive thee freely, and the best proof of forgiveness is to pray for thy soul.” He first laid the body decently on the turf, beneath the spreading beech, closed the eyes, composed the features, then spread the ill-fated youth’s cloak over his corpse, and knelt down to pray. When he arose, the setting sun was casting his rays on all that was mortal of Nicholas Grabber. Cuthbert re-mounted his steed, cast a lingering look behind, then rode on slowly, for he could give his horse rest now, towards Glastonbury.