"Well, it was up in the loft of this barn and this girl and—a fella, they were saying things—saying immodest things, and I stayed."
"You should have gone—you should have told the girl to go."
He should have gone! He could not tell Father Schwartz how his pulse had bumped in his wrist, how a strange, romantic excitement had possessed him when those curious things had been said. Perhaps in the houses of delinquency among the dull and hard-eyed incorrigible girls can be found those for whom has burned the whitest fire.
"Have you anything else to tell me?"
"I don't think so, Father."
Rudolph felt a great relief. Perspiration had broken out under his tight-pressed fingers.
"Have you told any lies?"
The question startled him. Like all those who habitually and instinctively lie, he had an enormous respect and awe for the truth. Something almost exterior to himself dictated a quick, hurt answer.
"Oh, no, Father, I never tell lies."
For a moment, like the commoner in the king's chair, he tasted the pride of the situation. Then as the priest began to murmur conventional admonitions he realized that in heroically denying he had told lies, he had committed a terrible sin—he had told a lie in confession.