Well, whom had he injured? Who had been hurt by his thought, his wish, to kill a man? Had it hurt the man, Samuel Rogers? No. He was none the worse of it.
Had it hurt Rafe Gadbeau? No. He did not enter into this at all.
Had it hurt Jeffrey Whiting, himself? Not till yesterday; and not in the way meant.
Whom, then? And if it had hurt nobody, then––then why all this––? Jeffrey Whiting rose from his chair as though to go. He did not look at the Bishop. He stood with his eyes fixed unseeing upon the floor, asking:
Whom?
Suddenly, from within, just barely audible through his lips there came the answer; a single word:
“God!”
“Your business is with Him, then,” said the Bishop, rising with what almost seemed brusqueness. “You wanted to see Him.”
“But––but,” Jeffrey Whiting hesitated to 330 argue, “men come to you, to confess. Rafe Gadbeau––!”
“No,” said the Bishop quickly, “you are wrong. Men come to me to confession. They come to confess to God.”