Don Teodoro took
off his spectacles, and rubbed them bright with the corner of his
mantle. He looked at them and took a long time over polishing them, for
he was thinking of all the things he had seen through the old
silver-rimmed glasses, some of which he should never see again.
"My friend," he said at last, "I wish to tell you a secret."
Don Matteo turned slowly in his seat, uncrossed his knees, and looked at
him.
"You may trust me," he answered.
"I know that," said Don Teodoro. "But there are reasons, as you will
see, why you cannot receive this as an ordinary secret. I wish to tell
it to you as a confession. You will then have to consult the archbishop,
before giving me absolution--and advice."
"Is it as serious as that?" asked Don Matteo, very much surprised, for
only the very gravest matters, and generally the most terrible crimes,
are referred to the bishop by a confessor.
"It is a grave matter," answered Don Teodoro. "Have the kindness to get
your stole, and I will make my confession, here. But we will lock the
enter door of the outer room, if you please."
He was shivering, and his face was white as he rose to go and slip the
bolt. Re-entering the room, he locked the inner door also behind him.
Don Matteo had produced from a drawer an old violet stole with tarnished
silver embroidery. It was carefully wrapped up in thin, clean, white
paper. A priest always wears the stole in administering any of the seven
sacraments.
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