"I should disown my manhood if I shirked now. The horror of prospective years of imprisonment has been more to me than death--I welcomed _that_ as the alternative. But now, the manhood that is left in me demands that if I am willing to live as a man, I must take my punishment like a man. I am going to let things take their usual course; accept no relief from the money guaranteed to reimburse the syndicate; plead guilty, and let the sentence be what it may: seven, fifteen, or twenty years--it's all one." He drew a long breath as of deliverance. The mere formulating of his decision in the presence of another man gave him strength, almost assurance to act for himself in furthering his own commitment. But the priest bowed his head into his hands and a groan burst from his lips, so laden with wretchedness, with mental and spiritual suffering, that even Champney Googe was startled from his hard-won calm. "Father Honore, what is it? Don't take it so hard." He laid his hand on his shoulder. "I can't ask you if I've done right, because no man can decide that for me; but wouldn't you do the same if you were in my place?" "Oh, would to God I had!--would to God I had!" he groaned rather than spoke. Champney was startled. He realized, for the first time, perhaps, in his self-centred life, that he was but a unit among suffering millions. He was realizing, moreover, that, with the utterance of his decision, he had, as it were, retired from the stage for many years to come; the curtain had fallen on his particular act in the life-drama; that others now occupied his place, and among them was this man before him who, active for good, foremost in noble works, strong in the faith, helpful wherever help might be needed, a refuge for the oppressed of soul, a friend to all humanity because human, _his_ friend--his mother's, was suffering at this moment as he himself had suffered, but without the relief that is afforded by renunciation. Out of a great love and pity he spoke: "What is it? Can't you tell me? Won't it help, just as man to man--as it has helped me?" Father Honore regained his control before Champney ceased questioning. "I don't know that it will help; but I owe it to you to tell you, after what you have said--told me. I can preach--oh yes! But the practice--the practice--" He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "What you have just told me justifies me in telling you what I thought never to speak of again in this world. You have done the only thing to do in the circumstances--it has taken the whole courage of a man; but I never for a moment credited you with sufficient manhood to dare it. It only goes to show how shortsighted we humans are, how incomprehensive of the workings of the human heart and soul; we think we know--and find ourselves utterly confounded, as I am now." He was silent for a few minutes, apparently deep in meditation.