hout a
prayer. It is too cruel. Do what you can for yourself. That's all I
can say."

"It is very simple," said the priest. "I need not go."

"Then they will know that I told you," she answered breathlessly. Her
eyes showed her fright.

"You are right," said the priest. "I fear that it would violate the
Seal if I refused to go."

"Yes," she said, "and he would know at once that I had told, and
he--he suspects me already. He may have followed me, for I refused to
call you. If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to you. I
am not ready to die--and he would kill me."

"Then do not trouble your mind about it any more. God will take care
of me," said the priest. "Finish your confession."

In ten minutes she had left. The priest was alone with himself, and
his duty. Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski--and he
knew that the woman had been followed.

He sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wide
open eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred. Then he went back
to the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary and
finished his daily office. He laid the book down on the arm of his
chair, went to his desk and wrote a few lines, sealed them in an
envelope and left it addressed on the blotter. He was outwardly calm,
but his face was gray as ashes. His eyes fell upon the crucifix above
his desk and he gave way in an instant, dropping on his knees before
it. The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse and
whispering:

"Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. I am young. Have pity
on me. I am not strong enough to be so like You."

Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he did
not go. Perhaps Slevski had not suspected his wife at all--but had
the priest not seen him outside the church?

The sweat was over his face, and he walked to the door to get a breath
of air. The priest knew there was no longer even a lingering doubt as
to what he should do. He went back to the church, and, before the
altar, awaited his call.

It was not long in coming. The old housekeeper appeared in half an
hour to summon him.

"Kendis is in the house. He lives on the other side of the Run. It is
for his wife, who is sick, that he comes. She is dying."

The priest bowed and followed the old servant into the house, but
Kendis had left.

The priest looked at his few books and lovingly touched some of his
favorites. His reading chair was near.