Suddenly the priest rose with a triumphant air.
"At last! You have said it."
"No."
"Ah!" muttered the priest between his teeth.
He twisted the man's hands in his. You felt he would have put his arms around him to stifle him, assassinate him if his death rattle would have brought a confession—so possessed was he with the desire to persuade him, to snatch from him the words he had come to seek on his lips.
He let the withered hands go, paced the room like a wild beast, then came back and stationed himself in front of the bed again.
"Remember—you are going to die," he stammered to the miserable man. "You will soon be in the earth. Say, 'Our Father,' just these two words, nothing else."
He hung over him with his eyes on his mouth, his dark, crouching figure like a demon lying in wait for a soul, like the whole Church over dying humanity.
"Say it! Say it! Say it!"
The sick man tried to wrest himself free. There was a rattle of fury in his throat. With the remnant of his voice, in a low tone, he gasped: