Del Fortis looked down upon him with contempt, as though he were some loathsome reptile writhing at his feet. “Silence!” he said, in a harsh whisper—“Remember, we are watched here! Get up!—why do you kneel to me? I have nothing to do with you, beyond such office as the Church enjoins!” And a cold smile darkened, rather than lightened his features. “I am sent to administer ‘spiritual consolation’ to you!”
Slowly the prisoner struggled up to a standing posture, and pressing both hands to his head, he stared wildly before him.
“‘Spiritual consolation’!” he muttered-“‘Spiritual’?” A faint dull vacuous smile flickered over his face, and he shuddered. “I understand! You come to prepare my soul for Heaven!”
Del Fortis gave him a sinister look.
“That depends on yourself!” he replied curtly—“The Church can speed you either way,—to Heaven, or—Hell!”
The prisoner’s hands clenched involuntarily with a gesture of despair.
“I know that!” he said sullenly—“The Church can save or kill! What of it? I am now beyond even the power of the Church!”
Del Fortis seated himself on the stone bench.
“Come here!” he said—“Sit down beside me!”
The prisoner obeyed.