"Yes, I know, I know. But the Lord is nearer to you to-day than He was
yesterday," replied the monk.

"I have many things to say," said Konrad, hesitatingly. "But I don't
want to confess. I want a man to talk to."

"You want to ease your heart, my poor friend," said the monk.

"You come to me because it's your duty," returned Konrad. "It's not
pleasant. You have to comfort us, and don't know how to do it.
There's nothing left for me."

"Don't speak like that," said the Father. "If I understand rightly,
you have not summoned me as a confessor. Only as a man, isn't that it?
And I come willingly as such. I can't convert you. You must convert
yourself. Imagine me to be a brother whom you haven't seen for a long
time. And now he comes and finds you here, and wellnigh weeping asks
you how such a thing could have happened."

The prisoner sat down on the bench, folded his hands, and bent his head
and murmured; "I had a brother. If he had lived I should not be here.
He was older than I."

"Have you no other relatives?" asked the monk.

"My parents died before I was twelve years old. Quickly, one after the
other. My father could not survive my mother. My mother--a poor, good
woman; always cheerful, pious. In the village just outside. No one
could have had a happier childhood. Ah! forgive me----" His words