Something still remained—­the Papal confirmation.  There were some who were sad and mute amid the general rejoicings, and among them was Father Omehr.  In vain had he implored Rodolph to postpone the session, at least until the appointed time would arrive:  the King of Arles regarded the delay as suicidal.  In vain, too, he conjured the legates to refuse their approval, at least until May, and begged them, with tears in his eyes, not to give the signal for civil war.  All the princes and a majority of the bishops conceived that the denial of the Apostolic benediction would destroy the hopes of the Church party.  They beheld in themselves the champions of the Church, and identified their own welfare with that of the Holy See; they believed that Gregory was only restrained by circumstances from granting the prayers of those who had sworn never to desert him; they maintained that although the Pope might not have permitted the election, he could not refuse to sanction their choice after it had been made.  Moved by these passionate representations, and, perhaps, expecting to please the Sovereign Pontiff, the legates yielded, and confirmed the election of Rodolph.

When Rodolph heard that he had been called to the throne he shut himself up in his room and sent for Father Omehr.  Scarce a minute elapsed before the missionary stood at his side.  They gazed at each other in silence for some moments.  The duke’s lips were compressed, and his brow gathered into a deep frown.  Mingled sorrow and hope were portrayed in the missionary’s face, and his breast heaved with excitement.

“I am king!” said Rodolph, in a whisper, still scanning the priest, as though he would read his soul.

“Not yet!” was the reply.

“Who can prevent it?”

“God!”

“Most humbly would I submit to His gracious interposition,” said the duke, bending his head devoutly; “but can any human power prevent it?”

“Yourself!”

Rodolph buried his face in his hands and with rapid, nervous gestures paced up and down the small apartment.

“Hear me!” he exclaimed, suddenly leading Father Omehr to a chair, and taking a seat beside him.  “Hear me!” he repeated, bending forward until his lips almost touched his companion’s ear, and the veins swelled in his throat and temples: 

“I have toiled and sighed and prayed for this!  Day after day, night after night, for years, this has been the aim of all my actions, ay, even the limit of my aspirations.  Once to be king—­oh! ever since I first clutched a lance I panted for it!  In love, in sickness, in peace, in war, I never forgot that one surpassing object—­the crown!  Hear me on!  It is now within my reach—­I can touch it—­and you ask me to resign it?—­”

The duke paused a minute, his eagle eye flashing fire; then, with a vehemence almost appalling, he resumed:  “You ask me to resign it—­and I would, without a pang—­gladly, cheerfully—­this very instant!  Yes—­I swear to you—­here in presence of my Creator, that I no longer covet the crown I have well-nigh worshipped; that, but for Germany and the Church, I would rather place it on Henry’s perjured head than wear it on my own!”