But the mother who bore me took no such charitable and Christian view.
“What is it? Wretched boy, what have you done?” And the cold repugnance in her voice froze anew the courage I was forming.
“O God help me! God help me!” I groaned miserably.
Gervasio, seeing my condition, with that quick and saintly sympathy that was his, came softly towards me and set a hand upon my shoulder.
“Dear Agostino,” he murmured, “would you find it easier to tell me first? Will you confess to me, my son? Will you let me lift this burden from your soul?”
Still on my knees I turned and looked up into that pale, kindly face. I caught his thin hand, and kissed it ere he could snatch it away. “If there were more priests like you,” I cried, “there would be fewer sinners like me.”
A shadow crossed his face; he smiled very wanly, a smile that was like a gleam of pale sunshine from an over-clouded sky, and he spoke in gentle, soothing words of the Divine Mercy.
I staggered to my bruised feet. “I will confess to you, Fra Gervasio,” I said, “and afterwards we will tell my mother.”
She looked as she would make demur. But Fra Gervasio checked any such intent.
“It is best so, Madonna,” he said gravely. “His most urgent need is the consolation that the Church alone can give.”