striking appearance, so tall and blond, so stalwart, and of such warlike tread and such majesty of mien, that he could not pass unnoticed. The tall pilgrim walked on, seemingly unconscious of the interest he excited. His eyes were bent upon the ground, and his face wore an expression of deep sadness. He made his way to the Pope’s palace, and waited in the antechamber with the throng assembled to pay their respects to the Father of Christendom. As the visitors were admitted to his presence, the Pontiff blessed them, and gave a few kind words to each.
At last the tall, handsome pilgrim approached. He knelt down, and in Latin, with a voice of strong Northern accent, craved the blessing of the Pope upon his pilgrimage.
“Who art thou?” asked the Pontiff, gazing in wonder, in admiration even, at the stately form bent down so humbly before him.
“Holy Father! I am but a poor pilgrim bound by a vow to visit the Tomb of my Saviour, in the land of Palestine.”
“Thou art now a pilgrim?”
“Aye, Holy Father, a poor sinful man, doing penance for his many sins, and making a humble pilgrimage to the land my Saviour trod.”
“Rise, my son!” the Pontiff’s intent look never left the palmer.
“Now thou art a pilgrim, an humble penitent.
