“But M’sieur the Bishop, himself,” the girl argued swiftly, evidently separating the priest in the confessional from the great bishop in his public walk, “he himself, on the stand––”
The girl stopped abruptly.
The Bishop held the silence of the grave.
“Mon Pere will make me tell, then––the truth,” she began. “Mon Pere, I cannot! I––!”
“Let us consider,” the Bishop broke in deliberately. “Suppose he had told this thing to you when he was dying. You would have said to him: Your soul may not rest if you leave another to suffer for your deed. Would he not have told you to tell and clear the other man?”
“To escape Hell,” said the girl quickly, “yes. He would have said: Tell everything; tell anything!” In the desolate forlornness of her grief she had not left to her even an illusion. Just as he was, she had known the man, good and bad, brave and cowardly––and had loved him. Would always love him.
“We will not speak of Hell,” said the Bishop 252 gently. “In that hour he would have seen the right. He would have told you to tell.”
“But he confessed to M’sieur the Bishop himself,” she retorted quickly, still seeming to forget that she was talking to the prelate in person, but springing the trap of her quick wit and sound Moral Theology back upon him with a vengeance, “and he gave him no leave to speak.”
The Bishop in a panic hurried past the dangerous ground.
“If he had left a debt, would you pay it for him, my daughter?”