It was a strange confession, there in the corner of the crowded cafe at midday, and those who glanced idly at the two men from a distance would hardly have guessed that an act in a mysterious life was before their eyes—­an act which was itself but a verbal recapitulation of many actions past, but which to the speaker had an enormous importance of its own, and an influence on the future of all concerned.

Not much had been needed to break through the barrier of Bosio’s reticence.  Walking through the streets that morning he had for a moment even thought of telling some of his story to Taquisara.  It was far easier to tell it to the only true friend he had in the world, to one in whom he had confided as a boy and had trusted as a young man.  He told almost all.  He confessed that his love of many years had been his brother’s wife, and though he spoke no word of her love for him, the old priest knew the evil truth from the man’s tone and look.  For the rest he spared neither Matilde nor any one else, but told Don Teodoro all the truth, and all his anxious fears for Veronica’s safety, if he should not marry her, with all his horror of his own shame if he should yield to the pressure brought upon him.

Don Teodoro’s expression changed more than once while he listened, but he never turned his head nor moved in his seat.

“You see what I am,” said Bosio, at last.  “You see what my people are.  Indeed, I need a confessor, if one could save my soul; but I need a friend even more, for through me that poor girl is in danger of her life.  That is her choice—­to die or to be my wife.  Mine is, to see her murdered or to do an unutterably shameful thing—­or to see the woman I love driven out of the world with infamy for the crimes she has not committed, and the fear of that disgrace is making her mad.  It is for her, and for Veronica!  What do I care about myself?  What have I left to care for?  What I have done, I have done.  I am not good, I am not religious, I am perhaps a worse sinner than most men, and a poorer believer than many.  But I will not be the instrument of these deeds—­and yet, if I refuse—­there is death, or shame, or both, to those I love!  At least I have spoken, and you will not betray me.  It has been a relief, a moment’s respite from torture.  I thank you for it, my friend, and I wish I could repay you.  You cannot give me advice, for I have twisted and turned it all in fifty ways, and there is no escape.  You cannot help me, for no one can.  But you have done me some little momentary good, just by sitting there and hearing my story.  Beyond that there is nothing to be done.”

The wretched man closed his eyes, and again leaned back against the bright red wall, which threw his white face and dark-ringed eyes into strong and painful relief.  Don Teodoro was silent, bending his mind upon the hideous problem.  Bosio misunderstood him and spoke again without moving.

“I know,” he said.  “You need not speak.  I know by heart all the reproaches I deserve, and I know that no human being, much less a holy man like yourself, could possibly feel anything but horror at all this—­”