"We have all done some one great wrong thing in our lives," he said gently. "The price may perhaps be paid to God in good, as well as to man in pain."
CHAPTER VI.
Bosio shook his head, and a long silence followed. Once or twice he roused himself, stirred the cup of chocolate which the waiter had set before him, and sipped a teaspoonful of it absently. The corner where the two men sat together was quiet, but from the front of the café came the continual clatter of plates and glasses, the echo of feet, and the ring of voices; for it was just midday, and the place was full of its habitual frequenters.
"If we were in church," said Bosio at last, "and if you were in a confessional—"
He stopped, and glanced at his companion without completing the sentence.
"You would make a confession? There are churches near," said Don
Teodoro. "I am ready. Will you come?"
Bosio hesitated.
"No," he said at last. "I could tell you nothing without betraying others."
"Betraying! Is it a crime that you have on your conscience?" The priest's voice was low and troubled.
"Many crimes," answered Bosio. "The crimes that must come, and that I cannot prevent by living, nor hinder by dying."