gloom and raised his eyes
to the white crucifix suspended above him. God could see that he was
sorry. He would tell all his sins. His confession would be long, long.
Everybody in the chapel would know then what a sinner he had been. Let
them know. It was true. But God had promised to forgive him if he was
sorry. He was sorry. He clasped his hands and raised them towards the
white form, praying with his darkened eyes, praying with all his
trembling body, swaying his head to and fro like a lost creature,
praying with whimpering lips.

--Sorry! Sorry! O sorry!

The slide clicked back and his heart bounded in his breast. The face of
an old priest was at the grating, averted from him, leaning upon a
hand. He made the sign of the cross and prayed of the priest to bless
him for he had sinned. Then, bowing his head, he repeated the CONFITEOR
in fright. At the words MY MOST GRIEVOUS FAULT he ceased, breathless.

--How long is it since your last confession, my child?

--A long time, father.

--A month, my child?

--Longer, father.

--Three months, my child?

--Longer, father.

--Six months?

--Eight months, father.

He had begun. The priest asked:

--And what do you remember since that time?

He began to confess his sins: masses missed, prayers not said, lies.

--Anything else, my child?

Sins of anger, envy of others, gluttony, vanity, disobedience.

--Anything else, my child?

There was no help. He murmured:

--I... committed sins of impurity, father.

The priest did not turn his head.

--With yourself, my child?

--And... with others.

--With women, my child?

--Yes, father.

--Were they married women, my child?

He did not know. His sins trickled from his lips, one by one, trickled
in shameful drops from his soul, festering and oozing like a sore, a
squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy.
There was no more to tell. He bowed his head, overcome.

The Priest was silent. Then he asked:

--How old are you, my child?

--Sixteen, father.

The priest passed his hand several times over his face. Then, resting
his forehead against his hand, he leaned towards the grating and, with
eyes still averted, spoke slowly. His voice was weary and old.

--You are very young, my child, he said, and let me implore of you to
give up that sin. It is a terrible sin. It kills the body and it kills
the soul. It is the cause of many crimes and misfortunes. Give it up,
my child, for