"And his eyes—did you observe anything particular about his eyes?"
"Yes; they were large, wild-looking, dark eyes, with a look in them—a look I cannot describe."
"A look of terror!" cried the pastor, now greatly agitated. "A look of terror—of remorse—of despair!"
"Yes, it was a look that might mean all that," I replied, my astonishment increasing at every word. "You seem troubled. Who is he?"
But instead of answering my question, the pastor took off his hat, looked up with a radiant, awe-struck face, and said:—
"All-merciful God, I thank Thee! I thank Thee that I am not mad, and that Thou hast sent this stranger to be my assurance and my comfort!"
Having said these words, he bowed his head, and his lips moved in silent prayer. When he looked up again, his eyes were full of tears.
"My son," he said, laying his trembling hand upon my arm, "I owe you an explanation; but I cannot give it to you now. It must wait till I can speak more calmly—till to-morrow, when I must see you again. It involves a terrible story—a story peculiarly painful to myself—enough now if I tell you that I have seen the Thing you describe—seen It many times; and yet, because It has been visible to my eyes alone, I have doubted the evidence of my senses. The good people here believe that much sorrow and meditation have touched my brain. I have half believed it myself till now. But you—you have proved to me that I am the victim of no illusion."
"But in Heaven's name," I exclaimed, "what do you suppose I saw in the confessional?"
"You saw the likeness of one who, guilty also of a double murder, committed the deadly sin of sacrilege in that very spot, more than thirty years ago," replied the Père Chessez, solemnly.