Only she, the partner of his past
errors, had watched, had discovered, had acted. Only through her had
he been able to hold his own with the Minister, knowing what manner of
language to use with him. His other friends, the friends devoted to his
religious ideas, had slept, and were still sleeping. The bitter thought
that they no longer cared for him was pleasing to him. It was pleasant
to give himself up, for once at least, to pity for his own fate, for
once to drain the cup to the dregs, to picture his fate even more
painful and bitter than it really was. All were against him, all were
in league against him! Alone, alone, alone! And was he really strong
at heart? That man up there, that Minister who possessed genius
and personal kindliness--what if he were right, after all? What if
Catholicism were really past healing? Lo! the Lord Himself, the Lord he
had served, the Lord who had struck down his body, and delivered him
into the power of his enemies, now was abandoning his soul. Anguish,
mortal anguish! He longed to die on that very spot and to be at peace.
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