"I beg your pardon," he said. "You do not seem to understand that what you are speaking of may mean the bitter sacrifice of a man's whole life. Even a clergyman is human, and may love as strongly, as completely"—
He choked with the emotion he could not control. He realized that he was telling his passion, and there came to him an overwhelming sense that he must never tell it save in this indirect manner. He hastened on lest she should interrupt him.
"Don't you suppose that a priest may know what it is to worship the very ground a woman walks on? Don't you suppose he has had his heart beat till it suffocated him just because her fingers touched his or her gown brushed him? A man is a man after all, and the dreams that come to one are much the same as come to another. The difference is that the priest has to tear his very heart out, and turn his back on all that other men may find delight in."
Berenice looked at him with shining eyes, not undimmed, he thought, by tears.
"If you really care for her so much," she said softly, "you can give only a divided heart to your work. It is better to own that to yourself, isn't it?"
"For her?" he echoed.
"Oh, there must be somebody," she returned hastily, her color coming.
"No matter about that."
"But think of giving up!" he cried, leaning toward her. "Even those who believe nothing despise a renegade priest."
"That's of less consequence than that he should ruin his life and despise himself."
He held out his uninjured hand impulsively.