She went from one to another of the confessionals, and, looking at each, perceived that they were inscribed with gilt letters:  on one, Pro Italica Lingua; on another, Pro Flandrica Lingua; on a third, Pro Polonica Lingua; on a fourth, Pro Illyrica Lingua; on a fifth, Pro Hispanica Lingua.  In this vast and hospitable cathedral, worthy to be the religious heart of the whole world, there was room for all nations; there was access to the Divine Grace for every Christian soul; there was an ear for what the overburdened heart might have to murmur, speak in what native tongue it would.

When Hilda had almost completed the circuit of the transept, she came to a confessional—­the central part was closed, but a mystic room protruded from it, indicating the presence of a priest within—­on which was inscribed, Pro Anglica Lingua.

It was the word in season!  If she had heard her mother’s voice from within the tabernacle, calling her, in her own mother-tongue, to come and lay her poor head in her lap, and sob out all her troubles, Hilda could not have responded with a more inevitable obedience.  She did not think; she only felt.  Within her heart was a great need.  Close at hand, within the veil of the confessional, was the relief.  She flung herself down in the penitent’s place; and, tremulously, passionately, with sobs, tears, and the turbulent overflow of emotion too long repressed, she poured out the dark story which had infused its poison into her innocent life.

Hilda had not seen, nor could she now see, the visage of the priest.  But, at intervals, in the pauses of that strange confession, half choked by the struggle of her feelings toward an outlet, she heard a mild, calm voice, somewhat mellowed by age.  It spoke soothingly; it encouraged her; it led her on by apposite questions that seemed to be suggested by a great and tender interest, and acted like magnetism in attracting the girl’s confidence to this unseen friend.  The priest’s share in the interview, indeed, resembled that of one who removes the stones, clustered branches, or whatever entanglements impede the current of a swollen stream.  Hilda could have imagined—­so much to the purpose were his inquiries—­that he was already acquainted with some outline of what she strove to tell him.

Thus assisted, she revealed the whole of her terrible secret!  The whole, except that no name escaped her lips.

And, ah, what a relief!  When the hysteric gasp, the strife between words and sobs, had subsided, what a torture had passed away from her soul!  It was all gone; her bosom was as pure now as in her childhood.  She was a girl again; she was Hilda of the dove-cote; not that doubtful creature whom her own doves had hardly recognized as their mistress and playmate, by reason of the death-scent that clung to her garments!

After she had ceased to speak, Hilda heard the priest bestir himself with an old man’s reluctant movement.  He stepped out of the confessional; and as the girl was still kneeling in the penitential corner, he summoned her forth.