The Priest and the Condemned Man.
Photo-Etching.—From drawing by J. F. Raffaelli.
How can I thus write when every point of his eloquence has already failed, and been unanswerably refuted!
TWENTY-NINTH PAPER.
THE Priest returned. He has white hair, a very gentle look, a good and respectable countenance, and is a charitable man. This morning I saw him empty his purse into the hands of the prisoners. Whence is it then that his voice causes no emotion, and he does not ever seem affected by his own theme? Whence is it that he has as yet said nothing which has won on my intellect or my heart?
This morning I was bewildered; I scarcely heard what he said; his words seemed to me useless, and I remained indifferent; they glided away like those drops of rain off the window-panes of my cell.
Nevertheless, when he came just now to my room, his appearance did me good. Amongst all mankind he is the only one who is still a brother for me, I reflected; and I felt an ardent thirst for good and consoling words.
When he was seated on the chair, and I on the bed, he said to me,—