"You speak seriously, Edward, and your face is clouded."
"It is a very serious matter."
"Can I help you? Is it likely that my advice would be of assistance?"
"I can speak of it to no one."
"You also have a secret then?"
"Yes, I also have a secret."
Christian Almer appeared to gather strength--a warranty, as it were, for his own wrong-doing--from the singular direction the conversation had taken. It was as though part of a burden was lifted from him. He was not the only one who was suffering--he was not the only one who was standing on a dangerous brink--he was not the only one who had drifted into dangerous waters. Even this strong-brained man, this Advocate who had seemingly held aloof from pleasure, whose days and nights had been given up to study, whose powerful intellect could pierce dark mysteries and bring them into clear light, who was the last man in the world who could be suspected of yielding to a prompting of which his judgment and conscience could not approve--even he had a secret which he was guarding with jealous care. Was it likely then, that he, the younger and the more impressionable of the two, could escape snares into which the Advocate had fallen? The fatalist's creed recurred to him. All these matters of life were preordained. What folly--what worse than folly, what presumption, for one weak man to attempt to stem the irresistible current! It was delivering himself up to destruction. Better to yield and float upon the smooth tide and accept what good or ill fate has in store for him. What use to infuse into the sunlight, and the balmy air, and into all the sweets of life, the poison of self-torture? The confession he had extracted from the Advocate was in a certain sense a justification of himself. He would pursue the subject still further. As he had been questioned, so he would question. It was but just.
"To judge from your manner, Edward, your secret is no light one."
"It is of most serious import."
"I almost fear to ask a question which occurs to me."