Sergius said nothing. Strange furrows ploughed themselves in his young face, which was growing dusky white. He remained in the attitude of one devoted entirely to listening.
“You hear, Sergius?”
“Go on—when?”
“To-day. I decided to go after I met you yesterday night—and after I had seen that woman die—unprepared.”
“What could she have to do with it?”
“Much. Everything almost.”
Anthony got up now, almost sprang up from his chair. His face was glowing and working with emotion. There was a choking sensation in his throat.
“You don't know what it is,” he said hoarsely, “to a man with—with strong religious belief to see a human being's soul go out to blackness, to punishment—perhaps to punishment that will never end. It's abominable. It's unbearable. That woman will haunt me. Her despair will be with me always. I could not add to that horror.”
His eyes once more sought the clock. Seeing the hour, he turned, with a kind of liberating relief, to Sergius.