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Page 205
nearby. Walter knew that to betray the secrets of the confessional was anathema and sure damnation for the priest who did it, but priests were men, and some of them feared damnation less than they should.
The village church was poor and mean, its stone walls without ornamentation, its windows mere slits in the fabric so that only narrow bars of light felt on the floor. Near the entry, when Walter had closed the door behind him, it was almost pitch-black, but diagonally across, just a few feet from the altar table, there was a lighter patch, which Walter realized was an open door into some outer building. Knowing Wales, Walter assumed it was the shedlike structure in which the priest lived.
"Father," he called.
Almost immediately the patch of light was blocked, and a voice replied. Although Walter did not understand the word, he assumed, since it was a single syllable, that it was a general question, such as: Yes? He was relieved. It was quite likely that this priest did not understand French. Thus, aside from the formal confiteor, what Walter said would be incomprehensible to him. Walter would, indeed, be speaking to God.
Walter drew his hood forward until his face was masked, although the corner in which he stood was so dark that it was unlikely the priest could make out his features. The voice of the priest was thin, uncertain, the voice of an old man. Walter knelt down on the cold stone floor and bowed his head.
"Father," he said, "I confess I have sinned." The words brought back so vivid an image of Marie huddled on the bed that his voice broke and he began to weep. "I have sinned most foully, and there is no help in me. . . .'' He choked his way through the formal Latin phrases and then began to pour out the story of his lust, his lack of understanding, and his inability to comfort the woman he had hurt.
The priest stood above him shrouded in a cloak or blanket, a black pillar visible only in outline against the somewhat lighter interior of the church. That he did not understand a word Walter said, beyond the Latin opening, was irrelevant. He could recognize true contrition in the broken voice and bowed body. And it did not matter what sin was being confessed since, however dreadful, it could go no further. In a way, the old man was glad he could not understand. He

 
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