“You are Catholic?”
“I am.”
“Do you do this willingly?”
“More than willingly.”
“For the good of your soul, my son, you will confess!”
“That is my desire.”
He straightened up, solemn and abrupt, but the assumption of dignity was spoiled by the wound on his cheek which continued to flow and against which he kept continually pressing his handkerchief.
“Commandant de Saint Omer, I do not expect any mercy. I would not ask for it. That is understood. I ask you to trust to my honor. I shall not evade any decision you make.”
“Your honor?”