“You were, as you say, angry with yourself for being so weak as not to be able to do what you had planned to do.” “In a way it was like that, yes. But then I was sorry too, you see. And maybe afraid. I’m not exactly sure now. Maybe not, either.” The Reverend McMillan shook his head. So strange! So evasive! So evil! and yet ... “But at the same time, as you say, you were angry with her for having driven you to that point.” “Yes.” “Where you were compelled to wrestle with so terrible a problem?” “Yes.” “Tst! Tst! Tst! And so you thought of striking her.” “Yes, I did.” “But you could not.” “No.” “Praised be the mercy of God. Yet in the blow that you did strike--unintentionally, as you say--there was still some anger against her. That was why the blow was so--so severe. You did not want her to come near you.” “No, I didn’t. I think I didn’t, anyhow. I am not quite sure. It may be that I wasn’t quite right. Anyhow--all worked up, I guess--sick almost. I--I ...” In his uniform--his hair cropped so close, Clyde sat there, trying honestly now to think how it really was (exactly) and greatly troubled by his inability to demonstrate to himself even--either his guilt or his lack of guilt. Was he--or was he not? And the Reverend McMillan--himself intensely strained, muttering: “Wide is the gate and broad the way that leadeth to destruction.” And yet finally adding: “But you did rise to save her.” “Yes, afterwards, I got up. I meant to catch her after she fell back. That was what upset the boat.” “And you did really want to catch her?” “I don’t know. At the moment I guess I did. Anyhow I felt sorry, I think.” “But can you say now truly and positively, as your Creator sees you, that you were sorry--or that you wanted to save her then?” “It all happened so quick, you see,” began Clyde nervously--hopelessly, almost, “that I’m not just sure. No, I don’t know that I was so sorry. No. I really don’t know, you see, now. Sometimes I think maybe I was, a little, sometimes not, maybe. But after she was gone and I was on shore, I felt sorry--a little. But I was sort of glad, too, you know, to be free, and yet frightened, too ... You see ...” “Yes, I know. You were going to that Miss X. But out there, when she was in the water...?” “No.” “You did not want to go to her rescue?” “No.” “Tst! Tst! Tst! You felt no sorrow? No shame? Then?” “Yes, shame, maybe. Maybe sorrow, too, a little. I knew it was terrible. I felt that it was, of course. But still--you see ...” “Yes, I know. That Miss X. You wanted to get away.” “Yes--but mostly I was frightened, and I didn’t want to help her.” “Yes! Yes! Tst! Tst! Tst! If she drowned you could go to that Miss X. You thought of that?” The Reverend McMillan’s lips were tightly and sadly compressed. “Yes.” “My son! My son! In your heart was murder then.”