“Follow me, please.”
The Englishman obeyed, and leaving the road they turned along a broad pathway running at the side of the water. Christian noticed that they were going upstream. Presently they reached a cottage, and a woman came from the open doorway at their approach. Without any greeting or word of welcome she led the way down some wooden steps to the ferry-boat. As she rowed them across, the journalist took note of everything in his quick, keen way. The depth of the water, rapidity of current, and even the fact that the boat woman was not paid for her services.
“Are we near our destination?” he asked in English when he saw this.
“We have five minutes more,” replied the priest in the same language.
On landing, they followed another small path for some distance, down-stream. It was a quiet moss-grown path, with poplar trees on either side, and appeared to be little used. Suddenly the young priest stopped. There was the trunk of an elm tree lying on the inside of the path, evidently cut for the purpose of making a rough seat.
“Let us sit here a few minutes,” said René.
Christian obeyed. He sat forward and stretched his long legs out.
“I am aching all over,” he said impatiently; “I wonder what it means!”
The priest ignored the remark entirely.
“My friend,” he said presently, “a few minutes more and my care of you ceases. This journey will be over. For me it has been very eventful. In these few days I have learnt more than I did during all the long years of my education, and what I have learnt will never be forgotten. Without breathing one word of religion you have taught me to respect yours; without uttering a single complaint you have made me think with horror and shame of the part I have played in this affair. I dare ... scarcely hope that one day you will forgive me!”