Farnsworth's face lighted with recognition, and he smiled rather
bitterly. He recalled everything and felt ashamed, humiliated,
self-debased. He had outraged even a priest's hospitality with his
brutish appetite, and he hated himself for it. Disgust nauseated
his soul apace with the physical sinking and squirming that grew
upon him.
"I'm a shabby, worthless dog!" he muttered, with petulant accent;
"why don't you kick me out, Father?"
The priest turned a collapsed and bloodless gray face upon him,
smiled in a tired, perfunctory way, crossed himself absently and
said:
"You have rested well, my son. Hard as the bed is, you have done
it a compliment in the way of sleeping. You young soldiers
understand how to get the most out of things."
"You are too generous, Father, and I can't appreciate it. I know
what I deserve, and you know it, too. Tell me what a brute and
fool I am; it will do me good. Punch me a solid jolt in the ribs,
like the one you gave me not long ago."
"Qui sine peccato est, primus lapidem mittat" said the priest.
"Let him who is without sin cast the first stone."
He had gone to the hearth and was taking from the embers an
earthen saucer, or shallow bowl, in which some fragrant broth
simmered and steamed.
"A man who has slept as long as you have, my son, usually has a
somewhat delicate appetite.
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