“Feel my hand,” said Brother Aloysius suddenly. “It’s as hot as hell.”
This time Michael stared in frank astonishment.
“Well, you needn’t look so frightened,” said the monk. “You don’t look so very good yourself.”
“Well, of course I’m not good,” said Michael. “Only I think it’s funny for a monk to swear. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
“I don’t mind. I don’t mind anything,” said Brother Aloysius.
Tension succeeded this statement, a tension that Michael longed to break; but he could do no more than continue to pick the blackberries.
“I suppose you wonder why I’m a monk?” demanded Brother Aloysius.
Michael looked at his questioner’s pale face, at the uncomfortable eyes gleaming blue, at the full stained mouth and the long feverish hands dyed with purple juice.
“Why are you?” he asked.
“Well, I thought I’d try if anything could make me feel good, and then you looked at me in Chapel and set me off again.”