rivacy. I can but tell you the tale of my own experience.

Sec.2

Monty's cabin was to be his confessional. I was to go to him early
the next morning, as I had been detailed for Submarine Watch for the
remainder of the day.

I approached his door, stimulating myself for the ordeal by saying
"In half an hour I shall have told all, and the thing will be done."
A certain happiness fought in my mind against my shrinking from
self-humiliation. Two moods wrestled in me; the one said: "The
long-dreaded moment is on you"; the other said: "The eagerly awaited
moment has come."

I found Monty ready for me, robed in a surplice and violet stole. In
front of the place where I was to kneel was a crucifix.

"Kneel there," said Monty, "and, if necessary, look at that. _He_
was so much a man like us that He kept the glory that was set before
Him as a motive for enduring the cross."

I knelt down. Nervousness suddenly possessed me, and my voice
trembled, as I read the printed words:

"Father, give me thy blessing, for I have sinned."

Then nervousness left me. The scene became very calm. It seemed to
be taking place somewhere out of the world. The worldly relations of
the two taking part in it changed as in a transfiguration. I ceased
to think of Monty as a lively friend. He had become a stately
priest, and I a penitent. He had become a father, and I a child.

With a quiet deliberateness that surprised me, I said the
"Confiteor," and accused myself of the long catalogue of sins that I
had prepared. It was almost mechanical. Such merit as there may have
been in my exhaustive confession must have lain in what conquering
of obstacles I achieved before I came to my knees in Monty's
presence, because I was conscious of no meritorious effort then. It
was as if I had battled against a running current, and had at last
got into the stream; for now, as I spoke in the confessional, I was
just floating without exertion down the current.

When I had finished, Monty sat without saying a word. I kept my face
in my hands, and waited for the counsel that he would offer.

He gave me the very thing that my opening manhood was craving; one
clear and lofty ideal. I had felt blindly for it that far-off time
when, as a small boy, the recollection of my grandfather's words:
"That Rupert, the best of the lot," had lifted me out of cheating
and lies. I had aspired towards it, but had not seen it, that
evening outside Kensingtowe's baths. I had see