e you have laid
before me is a very extraordinary one. I do not wish to know whether it
has actually come before you in confession. But if it has,--or if it
should,--I should wish you to be in a position to help that poor man and
set his life straight, by the grace of God, without injuring him, and,
above all, without injuring any of those persons to whom he has
administered the sacraments. I have known you a long time, Don Matteo,
and I can trust you to make no use of any power I give you, before the
world. I have the power and the right to consecrate a bishop any priest
whom I think a fit person. Kneel down here, say the 'Confiteor,' and I
will lay my hands on you. You could then give the penitent absolution
and ordain him a priest privately."

Don Matteo started in utmost surprise, and hesitated an instant.

"Kneel down," said the cardinal. "I take this upon myself."

The priest knelt, and the solemn words sounded low in the quiet little
room, as the archbishop laid his hands upon Don Matteo's grey head. When
the latter rose, he kissed the cardinal's ring, trembling a little, for
it had all been very unexpected. The cardinal embraced him in the
ecclesiastical fashion, and then, to his further amazement, drew off his
episcopal ring and slipped it upon Don Matteo's finger, took his own
bishop's cross and chain from his neck and hung it about Don Matteo's
neck.

"Keep them both in memory of this morning," said the prelate. "But hide
the chain and the cross under your cassock, for people need not see that
you are a bishop, when you sit among the canons in church. You know it,
I know it, your penitent must know it if the case is a real one, and the
Pope shall know it--but no one else living need ever guess it. Will you
kindly unlock the doors? Thank you. We will not mention this occurrence
again, if we can help it. Good morning, Don Matteo--good morning, my
friend."

When Don Matteo was in the street again, he stood still and passed his
hand over his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts. His bishop's ring
touched his forehead, and he realized that it was all true. He had not
been half an hour in the archbishop's palace, and when he reached his
own door, he had not been absent an hour from the house.

He found Don Teodoro in the same room and still in the same chair, into
which he had dropped exhausted when Don Matteo had gone out, his head
sunk on his breast, his hands clasped despairingly on his knees. As the
door