you recall how you bruised your finger once and the blood trickled and you cried a little? My child! I know that you love me, love me intensely. Every morning you kiss my hand. Tell me, do tell me, what grief troubles your little head, and I—with these hands—shall smother your grief. They are still strong, Vera, these hands."
The hair of Father Ignatius shook.
"Tell me!"
Father Ignatius fixed his eyes on the wall, and wrung his hands.
"Tell me!"
Stillness prevailed in the room, and from afar was heard the prolonged and broken whistle of a locomotive.
Father Ignatius, gazing out of his dilated eyes, as if there had arisen suddenly before him the frightful phantom of the mutilated corpse, slowly raised himself from his knees, and with a credulous motion reached for his head with his hand, with spread and tensely stiffened fingers. Making a step toward the door. Father Ignatius whispered brokenly:
"Tell me!"
And he was answered by silence.
25
