on the sand, he nodded more emphatically, and said, I was tired of repeating the “Good!” same story; I felt as if I’d never talked so much in all my life before. After another silence he stood up and said he’d like to help me; I interested him, and, with God’s help, he would do something for me in my trouble. But, first, he must put a few more questions. He began by asking bluntly if I’d loved my mother. I replied, everybody else.” The clerk behind me, who had been typing away “Yes,” “like at a steady pace, must just then have hit the wrong keys, as I heard him pushing the carrier back and crossing something out. Next, without any apparent logical connection, the magistrate sprang another question. did you fire five consecutive “Why I thought for a bit; then explained that they weren’t quite consecutive. I fired one at first, and the other four after a short interval. did you pause between the first and second shot?” “Why I seemed to see it hovering again before my eyes, the red glow of the beach, and to feel that fiery breath on my cheeks—and, this time, I made no answer. During the silence that followed, the magistrate kept fidgeting, running his fingers through his hair, half rising, then sitting down again. Finally, planting his elbows on the desk, he bent toward me with a queer expression. why, why did you go on firing at a prostrate man?” “But Again I found nothing to reply. The magistrate drew his hand across his forehead and repeated in a slightly different tone: ask you I insist on your telling me.” I still kept silent. “I ‘Why?’ Suddenly he rose, walked to a file cabinet standing against the opposite wall, pulled a drawer open, and took from it a silver crucifix, which he was waving as he came back to the desk. you know who this is?” His had changed completely; it was vibrant with “Do emotion. course I do,” I answered. “Of
on the sand, he nodded more emphatically, and said, “Good!” I was tired of repeating the same story; I felt as if I’d never talked so much in all my life before. After another silence he stood up and said he’d like to help me; I interested him, and, with God’s help, he would do something for me in my trouble. But, first, he must put a few more questions. He began by asking bluntly if I’d loved my mother. “Yes,” I replied, “like everybody else.” The clerk behind me, who had been typing away at a steady pace, must just then have hit the wrong keys, as I heard him pushing the carrier back and crossing something out. Next, without any apparent logical connection, the magistrate sprang another question. “Why did you fire five consecutive I thought for a bit; then explained that they weren’t quite consecutive. I fired one at first, and the other four after a short interval. “Why did you pause between the first and second shot?” I seemed to see it hovering again before my eyes, the red glow of the beach, and to feel that fiery breath on my cheeks—and, this time, I made no answer. During the silence that followed, the magistrate kept fidgeting, running his fingers through his hair, half rising, then sitting down again. Finally, planting his elbows on the desk, he bent toward me with a queer expression. “But why, why did you go on firing at a prostrate man?” Again I found nothing to reply. The magistrate drew his hand across his forehead and repeated in a slightly different tone: “I ask you ‘Why?’ I insist on your telling me.” I still kept silent. Suddenly he rose, walked to a file cabinet standing against the opposite wall, pulled a drawer open, and took from it a silver crucifix, which he was waving as he came back to the desk. “Do you know who this is?” His had changed completely; it was vibrant with emotion. “Of course I do,” I answered.