Raven found himself halting. There were, behind this vision of the symbol by which God made Himself manifest to man, reserves of strict integrities.
"Tenney," he said, "you've killed a child. Your child. You're a criminal. The only thing you can do to get back among men is to give yourself up. To the law. And take your medicine."
"O my God!" cried Tenney. "Tell it? Tell that? Bring it up afore judge an' jury how I thought——"
"Don't tell me what you thought," said Raven sharply. "You've said it once. You were crazy, and you killed your child."
"An' what if——" he began, and Raven finished for him:
"What if they hang you? We can't go into that. There's your first step. Give yourself up."
The next instant he was sorry for the brutality of this. But Tenney did not find it brutal. Strangely it seemed to him a way out, the only way. He was brooding. Suddenly he looked up.
"You told me," he said, apparently in wonder, "you didn't believe."
What to say? "I believe in God Who is letting me—tenderly, oh, with such pity for my human foolishness—seize whatever crutch I can to help you over this dark mortal way?" Could he say that? No, it was true, but somehow it couldn't be said.
"Yes," he answered gravely, "I believe."