"Don't say that, Mike; you need not go to hell."
"I must, lad, I must! For a man that's sinned as I have there can be no mercy. I'm as bad as a murderer, that's what I am."
"And if you are, Mike, there's mercy even for such. Don't you remember how Jesus Christ prayed for His murderers?—'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!'"
"Ah, but I knew what I was doing. I knew it was a crime for which I might be hanged; but I didn't care. If I'd seen what it would all lead to! I never thought, Gus, that you would suffer! To see you come limping in, so mild and patient, was almost more than I could bear. And yet it would have been worse if he had died. You've saved me from the guilt of blood."
"Mike, what do you mean? Of what are you thinking?"
"Can't ye guess, Gus?"
"Are you thinking of the fire, Mike? Do you know more about it than I?"
"I know more about it than any one else, lad. Oh, if I dared to tell you! Maybe you wouldn't be so hard on me as some. Oh, this fire, this fire in my bones! I shall not rest in my grave, I'm thinking, if I don't confess the truth."
"If there's anything on your conscience, Mike, you'd better confess it to God, not to me."
"I can't, I can't!" groaned the old man. "Besides, God knows. Isn't He punishing me for it now?"