The priest has come back to me.
He has white hair, a gentle manner, and a benevolent face. Indeed, I have heard that he is a really good and charitable man. This morning I saw him distribute the contents of his purse amongst the prisoners. But his exhortations have no effect on me. I was callous to all that he could say, his words slided from my mind as cold rain from a frozen window-pane.
However, his reappearance gave me pleasure. Amongst all those who surround me, he is the only one who still looks upon me as a man, and I am thirsting for kind and cheering words.
We sat down, he on my chair, I on the bed.
“My son,” commenced he. These words went at once straight to my heart. He continued, “Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, father,” I replied.
“Do you believe in the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church?”
“Certainly,” answered I.
“My son,” observed he, “I fear that you are a waverer.” Then he began to speak again. He talked for a long time; then when he fancied that he had said enough, he for the first time raised his eyes to mine as if to question me mutely.
“Well?” asked he.