Page 175 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

wood of trees, mending their nets with patience.
A tall figure came down the aisle and the penitents
stirred; and at the last moment, glancing up swiftly, he saw
a long grey beard and the brown habit of a capuchin. The
priest entered the box and was hidden. Two penitents rose
and entered the confessional at either side. The wooden slide
was drawn back and the faint murmur of a voice troubled
the silence.
His blood began to murmur in his veins, murmuring
like a sinful city summoned from its sleep to hear its doom.
Little flakes of fire fell and powdery ashes fell softly, alight-
ing on the houses of men. They stirred, waking from sleep,
troubled by the heated air.
The slide was shot back. The penitent emerged from the
side of the box. The farther side was drawn. A woman en-
tered quietly and deftly where the first penitent had knelt.
The faint murmur began again.
He could still leave the chapel. He could stand up, put
one foot before the other and walk out softly and then run,
run, run swiftly through the dark streets. He could still es-
cape from the shame. Had it been any terrible crime but
that one sin! Had it been murder! Little fiery flakes fell and
touched him at all points, shameful thoughts, shameful
words, shameful acts. Shame covered him wholly like fine
glowing ashes falling continually. To say it in words! His
soul, stifling and helpless, would cease to be.
The slide was shot back. A penitent emerged from the
farther side of the box. The near slide was drawn. A penitent
entered where the other penitent had come out. A soft whis-

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