"I knew it! I knew it!" the priest muttered to himself, while the great drops started on his forehead, in the intensity of the conflict he repressed. Agnes thought the solemn pause that followed was caused by the horror that had been inspired by her own sinfulness.
"You did not, then, heartily and truly wish him to go from you?" pursued the cold, severe voice.
"Yes, my father, I did. I wished him to go with all my soul."
"Yet you say you found pleasure in his being near you," said Father Francesco, conscious how every string of his own being, even in this awful hour, was vibrating with a sort of desperate, miserable joy in being once more near to her.
"Ah," sighed Agnes, "that is true, my father,—woe is me! Please tell me how I could have helped it. I was pleased before I knew it."
"And you have been thinking of what he said to you with pleasure since?" pursued the confessor, with an intense severity of manner, deepening as he spoke.
"I have thought of it," faltered Agnes.
"Beware how you trifle with the holy sacrament! Answer frankly. You have thought of it with pleasure. Confess it."
"I do not understand myself exactly," said Agnes. "I have thought of it partly with pleasure and partly with pain."
"Would you like to go with him and be his wife, as he said?"