"Thou knewest how thou wouldst fare with me, Robert, when thou didst decline to remain with our friends," said the priest.
"I have not yet forgotten how to cut my bed from the pine-branches, father, though it is long since I have slept on such a fragrant mattress," Robert returned.
"And why hast thou remained so many months away from thy friends? Thou lovest not the confessional, I know, but speak to me as to thy friend. Thou hast a burden on thy heart, Robert; thou art not the free, light-hearted youth thou wert a year ago."
The young man hesitated, loath to grieve his friend with the recital of the troublous events of the past winter. The priest was so far removed from the world's grossness that it seemed a wrong to desecrate his forest-chapel with a story of passion, of bloodshed, of cowardice, of deceit, and of human love.
"Speak, my son," said the priest authoritatively.
The old habit of obedience prevailed, and Robert complied with the father's exhortation to confide in him.
The hour was late when the two friends lay down to sleep, the priest on his hard bed, the youth on the floor beside him. The silence of the woods, the fatigues he had endured, and the
