The monk did not move.
At last he made a desperate effort, stammered the beginning of the Confiteor, and said,
"I have not confessed, since my childhood; since then I have led a shameful life, I have ..."
The words would not come.
The Trappist remained silent, and did not assist him at all.
"I have committed every kind of debauch, I have done everything ... everything ..."
He choked, and the tears he had repressed flowed, he wept, his body was shaken, his face hidden in his hands.
And as the prior, still bending over him, did not move,
"But I cannot," he cried; "I cannot."
All that life he could not bring out, stifled him; he sobbed in despair at the view of his sins, and crushed also at finding himself thus abandoned, without a word of kindness, without help. It seemed to him that all was giving way, that he was lost, repulsed even by Him who yet had directed him to this abbey.