A soldier almost bumped into the priest, as he came running down the street, gun in hand, followed by half a dozen others.  One of them saluted.  “Bad business, Father,” he said.  “Will the lieutenant live?”

“I am afraid he will not,” answered the priest.

“They will surely burn down the company’s buildings,” said the soldier.  “God!  There they go now.”  And the soldier hurried on.

Later the priest watched the red glow from his window.  It reminded him of blood, and he shuddered.

His old housekeeper called him to his frugal supper.

“I can not go out much now,” he said to her.  “I am a Pole.  What could a Pole do with these Huns who have no sympathy with him, or the Italians whose language he can not speak?”

He wondered if he were a coward.  Why should he discuss this with his servant?

“Slevski,” she said, “makes the people do what he wants.  He cursed me on the street this morning.”

“Yes,” said the priest, “he speaks in curses.  He has never tried to speak to God, so he has never learned any other language; and these men are his property now.”

“There will be no one at Mass next Sunday,” said the old housekeeper.  “Even the women won’t come.  They think you are in league with the soldiers.”

“Never mind, Judith,” said the priest, “at heart they are good people, and this will pass away.  The women fear God.”

“They fear God sometimes,” said Judith, “but now they fear Slevski always.”

The priest said nothing in reply.  He was here the patient Church which could wait and does not grow old.

After his meal, he again stood at the window to watch the red glow of the burning buildings.  He heard shots, but he knew that it would be useless to interfere.  He waited for some one to come and call him to the dying; for he feared people had been hurt, else why the shots?

A knock sounded on the door.  He opened it, and a woman entered.  The priest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski’s wife.  She was not of these people by race, nor of his own.  She was English-speaking and did not come to church.  Slevski had married her three years before in Pittsburgh.  She looked frightened as he waited for her to speak.

“Tell me,” she began very rapidly, is it true that no single word of a confession may ever be revealed by the priest?”

“It is true,” he answered.

“Even if he were to die for it?” she urged.

“Even if he were to die.”

The priest’s eyes wore a puzzled expression, but she went on: 

“May he even not betray it by an action?”

“Not even by an action.”

“Even if he died for it?” Her voice was full of anxiety.

“Even then.”

“I wish to confess,” she said.  “May I do it, here?  I will kneel afterward, if necessary, but I can tell it better here—­and I must do it quickly.”