You don't know that I'm a thief.
Yes, a thief, for it was I who took that money he was accused of
stealing. Do you know that?"
"I know it," answered the priest calmly, "and still I say I bring you
peace and pardon."
"Perhaps you know, too, that I am a murderer, for it was grief,
heartbreak, which weakened him so that when disease attacked him he had
not sufficient strength to combat the fever. Do you now that, you who
talk to me so easily of peace and pardon?"
"I know that, too, and it is in his name that I offer you forgiveness
for your sins."
"You know all then? He told you?"
"He told me in the delirium of fever. He never knew he told; he died
thinking he carried the secret with him to the grave. He was faithful
even unto death."
"Faithful even unto death. And you, his brother, come to me now and,
knowing all, dare to hold out to me the hope of forgiveness and of
peace?" and the man stared incredulously into the kind, pitying eyes
bent upon him.
"I, his brother, offer you now forgiveness of all your sins and peace
which surpasseth all understanding."
The sick man was seized with a violent fit of coughing and when it had
passed, he lay back in his chair exhausted, with closed eyes and white,
pain-drawn face. The priest, wishing to give him a moment to rest and
recover his breath, walked to the window and looked out.
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