" In the south,
the young Princess Clotilda, now nearly sixteen, had washed the
feet of pilgrims, ministered to the poor, and, after the manner
of her day, had proved herself a zealous church-worker in that
low-roofed convent near the old church of St. Peter, high on that
same hill in Geneva where to-day, hemmed in by narrow streets and
tall houses, the cathedral of St. Peter, twice rebuilded since
Clotilda's time, overlooks the quaint city, the beautiful lake of
Geneva, and the rushing Rhone, and sees across the valley of the
Arve the gray and barren rocks of the Petit Seleve and the
distant snows of Mont Blanc.
One bright summer day, as the young princess passed into the
hospitium, or guest-room for poor pilgrims, attached to the
convent, she saw there a stranger, dressed in rags. He had the
wallet and staff of a mendicant, or begging pilgrim, and, coming
toward her, he asked for "charity in the name of the blessed St.
Peter, whose church thou servest."
The young girl brought the pilgrim food, and then, according to
the custom of the day, kneeling on the earthen floor, she began
to bathe his feet. But as she did so, the pilgrim, bending
forward, said in a low voice:
"Lady, I have great matters to announce to thee, if thou deign to
permit me to reveal them.
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