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“And if what you saw there was only the reflection of your faith in her?”

“My son, I am a priest, and the priest penetrates to the soul as the angel passed through the walls of Peter’s prison. I see the truth in her heart as I see Christ in the host!”

“No, no, she is false!” he cried.

I sprang up terrified. “Roberto, be silent!”

He looked at me with a wild incredulous smile. “Poor simple man of God!” he said.

“I would not exchange my simplicity for yours–the dupe of envy’s first malicious whisper!”

“Envy–you think that?”

“Is it questionable?”

“You would stake your life on it?”

“My life!”

“Your faith?”

“My faith!”

“Your vows as a priest?”

“My vows–” I stopped and stared at him. He had risen and laid his hand on my shoulder.

“You see now what I would be at,” he said quietly. “I must take your place presently–“

“My place–?”

“When my wife comes down. You understand me.”

“Ah, now you are quite mad!” I cried breaking away from him.

“Am I?” he returned, maintaining his strange composure. “Consider a moment. She has not confessed to you before since our return from Milan–“

“Her ill-health–“

He cut me short with a gesture. “Yet to-day she sends for you–“

“In order that she may receive the sacrament with you on the eve of your first separation.”

“If that is her only reason her first words will clear her. I must hear those words, Egidio!”

“You are quite mad,” I repeated.

“Strange,” he said slowly. “You stake your life on my wife’s innocence, yet you refuse me the only means of vindicating it!”

“I would give my life for any one of you–but what you ask is not mine to give.”

“The priest first–the man afterward?” he sneered.

“Long afterward!”

He measured me with a contemptuous eye. “We laymen are ready to give the last shred of flesh from our bones, but you priests intend to keep your cassocks whole.”

“I tell you my cassock is not mine,” I repeated.

“And, by God,” he cried, “you are right; for it’s mine! Who put it on your back but my father? What kept it there but my charity? Peasant! beggar! Hear his holiness pontificate!” “Yes,” I said, “I was a peasant and a beggar when your father found me; and if he had left me one I might have been excused for putting my hand to any ugly job that my betters required of me; but he made me a priest, and so set me above all of you, and laid on me the charge of your souls as well as mine.”

He sat down shaken with dreadful tears. “Ah,” he broke out, “would you have answered me thus when we were boys together, and I stood between you and Andrea?”

“If God had given me the strength.”

“You call it strength to make a woman’s soul your stepping-stone to heaven?”

“Her soul is in my care, not yours, my son. She is safe with me.”

“She? But I? I go out to meet death, and leave a worse death behind me!” He leaned over and clutched my arm. “It is not for myself I plead but for her–for her, Egidio! Don’t you see to what a hell you condemn her if I don’t come back? What chance has she against that slow unsleeping hate? Their lies will fasten themselves to her and suck out her life. You and Marianna are powerless against such enemies.”

“You leave her in God’s hands, my son.”

“Easily said–but, ah, priest, if you were a man! What if their poison works in me and I go to battle thinking that every Austrian bullet may be sent by her lover’s hand? What if I die not only to free Italy but to free my wife as well?”

I laid my hand on his shoulder. “My son, I answer for her. Leave your faith in her in my hands and I will keep it whole.”

He stared at me strangely. “And what if your own fail you?”

“In her? Never. I call every saint to witness!”