ey fear God sometimes," said Judith, "but now they fear Slevski
always."

The priest said nothing in reply. He was here the patient Church which
could wait and does not grow old.

After his meal, he again stood at the window to watch the red glow of
the burning buildings. He heard shots, but he knew that it would be
useless to interfere. He waited for some one to come and call him to
the dying; for he feared people had been hurt, else why the shots?

A knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a woman entered. The
priest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski's
wife. She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. She was
English-speaking and did not come to church. Slevski had married her
three years before in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waited
for her to speak.

"Tell me," she began very rapidly, is it true that no single word of a
confession may ever be revealed by the priest?"

"It is true," he answered.

"Even if he were to die for it?" she urged.

"Even if he were to die."

The priest's eyes wore a puzzled expression, but she went on:

"May he even not betray it by an action?"

"Not even by an action."

"Even if he died for it?" Her voice was full of anxiety.

"Even then."

"I wish to confess," she said. "May I do it, here? I will kneel
afterward, if necessary, but I can tell it better here--and I must do
it quickly."

"It will take only a minute if we go to the church," he answered. "It
is irregular to hear your confession outside of the proper place,
unless in case of illness."

"Then let us go," she said, "and hurry."

They entered the church, and she knelt on the penitent's side of the
confessional. Later she told all that had happened.

"What troubles you?" asked the priest. "Have you been to confession of
late?"

"Three years ago," and she shuddered, "I was to confession. It was
before I married him, never since. Yes, yes, I ought to be known to
you. Listen now, for there isn't very much time." He bent his head and
said: "I am listening."

She went on without taking breath. "They are going to murder you. I
heard it, for I was in the secret. I consented to summon you, but I
could not. They charged that you were in the company's pay and working
against the men. One of them will come to-night and ask you to go on a
sick-call. They intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run. I had
to warn you to prepare. I could not see you killed without--wit