The Forgiver of Sins


"A Priest, for Christ's sake, a priest," moaned the man.

A white-faced sister of charity upon whom had developed the appalling
task of caring for the long rows of wounded at the dressing station
before they were entrained and sent south to the hospital, hovered over
the stretcher.

"My poor man," she whispered, "there is no priest here."

"I can't die without confession--absolution," was the answer. "A priest,
get me a priest."

Next to and almost touching the cot on which the speaker writhed in his
death agony lay another man apparently in a profound stupor. He wore
the uniform of a private soldier and his eyes were bandaged. His face
had been torn to pieces by shrapnel, fragments of which had blinded him.
At that instant he came out of that stupor. Perhaps the familiar words
recalled him to himself. He moved his hand slightly. The sister saw his
lips tremble. She bent low.

"Who seeks confession, absolution?" he whispered. "I am a priest."

"You are wounded, dying, father."

"How can I die better than shriving a fellow sinner?"