"No, none at all; you have been badly taught; he who accuses another in his confession is unworthy to receive the Sacrament."
Both were silent. "Uncle, what makes you think of this?" Frederick finally asked. "Your conscience is not clear; you have lied to me."
"I? How?"
"Where is your axe?"
"My axe? On the barn-floor."
"Did you make a new handle for it? Where is the old one?"
"You'll find it at daylight in the woodshed."
"Go," he continued scornfully. "I thought you were a man; but you are like an old woman who thinks the house must be on fire as soon as she sees smoke rising from her pot. See," he went on, "if I know anything more about this story than that doorpost there, may I never hope for salvation. I was at home long before," he added. Frederick stood still, oppressed and doubtful. He would have given much to be able to see his uncle's face. But while they were whispering, the sky had clouded over.
"I am very guilty," sighed Frederick, "because I sent him the wrong way; although—but still, I never thought it would come to this, no, certainly not! Uncle, I have you to thank for a troubled conscience."
"Well, go and confess!" whispered Simon in a trembling voice. "Desecrate the Sacrament by tale-bearing, and set a spy on poor people who will manage to find a way to snatch their bit of bread from between their teeth, even if he is not permitted to talk—go!" Frederick stood, undecided; he heard a soft noise; the clouds cleared away, the moonlight again fell on the bedroom door; it was closed. Frederick did not go to confession that morning.