"I represent God," he said. "You are in my presence as if you were in the presence of God. Simply say 'I believe,' and I will absolve you. 'I believe,' that is all. The rest makes no difference to me." He bent lower and lower, almost gluing his face to that of the dying man, trying to plant his absolution like a blow. "Simply say with me, 'Our Father, who art in heaven.' I do not ask you to do anything else." The sick man's face contracted. "No--no!" Suddenly the priest rose with a triumphant air. "At last! You have said it." "No." "Ah!" muttered the priest between his teeth. He twisted the man's hands in his. You felt he would have put his arms around him to stifle him, assassinate him if his death rattle would have brought a confession--so possessed was he with the desire to persuade him, to snatch from him the words he had come to seek on his lips. He let the withered hands go, paced the room like a wild beast, then came back and stationed himself in front of the bed again. "Remember--you are going to die," he stammered to the miserable man. "You will soon be in the earth. Say, 'Our Father,' just these two words, nothing else." He hung over him with his eyes on his mouth, his dark, crouching figure like a demon lying in wait for a soul, like the whole Church over dying humanity. "Say it! Say it! Say it!" The sick man tried to wrest himself free. There was a rattle of fury in his throat. With the remnant of his voice, in a low tone, he gasped: "No!" "Scoundrel!" cried the priest. And he struck him in the face. After that neither man made a move for a while. Then the priest went at it again. "At least you will die holding a crucifix," he snarled. He drew a crucifix from his pocket, and put it down hard on his breast. The other man shook himself in a dull horror, as if religion were contagious, and threw the crucifix on the floor. The priest stooped, mumbling insults. "Carrion, you want to die like a dog, but I am here!" He picked up the crucifix, and with a gleam in his eyes, sure of crushing him, waited for his final chance. The dying man panted, completely at the end of his strength. The priest, seeing him in his power, laid the crucifix on his breast again. This time the other man let it stay there, unable to do anything but look at it with eyes of hatred. But his eyes did not make it fall. . . . . .