"But you could not."
"No."
"Praised be the mercy of God. Yet in the blow that you did strike—unintentionally—as you say—there was still some anger against her. That was why the blow was so—so severe. You did not want her to come near you."
"No, I didn't. I think I didn't, anyhow. I'm not quite sure. It may be that I wasn't quite right. Anyhow—all worked up, I guess—sick almost. I—I——" In his uniform—his hair cropped so close, Clyde sat there, trying honestly now to think how it really was (exactly) and greatly troubled by his inability to demonstrate to himself even—either his guilt or his lack of guilt. Was he—or was he not? And the Reverend McMillan—himself intensely strained, muttering: "Wide is the gate and broad the way that leadeth to destruction." And yet finally adding: "But you did rise to save her."
"Yes, afterwards, I got up. I meant to catch her after she fell back. That was what upset the boat."
"And you did really want to catch her?"
"I don't know. At the moment I guess I did. Anyhow I felt sorry, I think."
"But can you say now truly and positively, as your Creator sees you, that you were sorry—or that you wanted to save her then?"
"It all happened so quick, you see," began Clyde nervously—hopelessly, almost, "that I'm not just sure. No, I don't know that I was so very sorry. No. I really don't know, you see, now. Sometimes I think maybe I was, a little, sometimes not, maybe. But after she was gone and I was on shore, I felt sorry—a little. But I was sort of glad, too, you know, to be free, and yet frightened, too——You see——"
"Yes, I know. You were going to that Miss X. But out there, when she was in the water——?"