“To the priest who—to Father Roubier!”
There was fierce protest in his voice.
“It does not matter who is the priest who will receive your confession. Only make it there—make it in the church at Beni-Mora where you married me.”
“That was your purpose! That is where you are taking me! I can’t go, I won’t! Domini, think what you are doing! You are asking too much—”
“I feel that God is asking that of you. Don’t refuse Him.”
“I cannot go—at Beni-Mora where we—where everything will remind us—”
“Ah, don’t you think I shall feel it too? Don’t you think I shall suffer?”
He felt horribly ashamed when she said that, bowed down with an overwhelming weight of shame.
“But our lives”—he stammered—“but—if I go—afterwards—if I make my confession—afterwards—afterwards?”
“Isn’t it enough to think of that one thing? Isn’t it better to put everything else, every other thought, away? It seems so clear to me that we should go to Beni-Mora. I feel as if I had been told—as a child is told to do something by its father.”