Don Matteo, as was right in such a position, laid the whole matter before him as a theoretical case of conscience, without names, and without any useless details which might by any possibility give a clue to his real penitent’s identity.  He stated it all with great clearness and force, but he dwelt much upon the spotless life of charity and good works which the man had led, in spite of his one chief sin.  He knew, when Don Teodoro spoke of having spent his father’s fortune, that almost every penny of it had gone to the poor of Naples in one way or another, and he had seen at a glance how his poor friend had in his youth exaggerated his boyish admiration for his stepmother.  But Don Matteo put the main point very clearly before the cardinal—­always as a purely theoretical case of conscience, asking what a confessor’s duty would be in such an extremely difficult situation.

The cardinal listened attentively, and then was silent for some time.

“The first thing to be done,” he said at last, “would be to make a priest of him.  He is evidently a man with a vocation, and the chain of circumstances which led him into this sin and difficulty is a very strange one.  I hardly know what to say of it—­left alone with savages only just converted—­well, he was wrong, of course.  But the man you represent in your theoretical case is supposed to be in all other respects almost a holy man.”

“Yes, a man of holy life,” said Don Matteo, earnestly.

“I do not see how a man of such disposition could have been so lacking in courage afterwards,” said the cardinal.

“But suppose that it were exactly as I represent the case, Eminence, what should the confessor do?”

The cardinal looked into his eyes long and gravely.

“I should think it best to make a priest of him as soon as possible,” he said at last.

“But how?  No bishop could ordain him a priest without knowing his story.”

“I would ordain him, if he came to me.  I think I should be doing right.”

“But then your Eminence would know him, and the secret of confession would have been betrayed.”

“That is true.  Let him go to another bishop and tell his story.”

“Another bishop might not think as your Eminence does.  Besides, the question is what the confessor is to do under the circumstances.”

The cardinal suddenly rose, went to the broad window, and looked out thoughtfully.  Don Matteo stood up respectfully, waiting.  It seemed to him a long time before the prelate turned, and what he did then surprised the priest very much, for he went to each of the three doors of the room in succession, opened it, looked out, closed it again and locked it.  Then he came back to Don Matteo.

“Are you, to the best of your belief, in a state of grace, my friend?” he asked in a low voice.  “Have you no mortal sin on your conscience?  Reflect well.  This is a grave matter.”