One of the master's disciples wanted to speak alone with him, but he did not dare. The master told him:
— Tell me what sorrow oppresses you.
The disciple replied:
— I lack courage.
The master said:
— I give you the courage.
The story is very old, but a tradition, that might as well not be apocryphal, has preserved the words those men said, on the borders of the desert and the dawn. Said the disciple:
— Three years ago, I committed a great sin. Others know it not, but I do, and I cannot look at my right hand without horror.
Said the master:
— All men have sinned. It is not of men not to have sinned. He who looks at a man with hatred has already put him to death in his heart.
Said the disciple:
— Three years ago, in Samaria, I killed a man.
The master was silent, but his face became altered, and the disciple could fear his wrath. He said at last:
— Nineteen years ago, in Samaria, I fathered a man. You have already regretted what you did.
Said the disciple:
— Indeed. My nights are of prayer and crying. I want you to grant me your forgiveness.
Said the master:
— No one can forgive, not even the Lord. Were a man to be judged by his acts, there is no one who would not be deserving of hell and of heaven. Are you sure of still being that man who killed his brother?
Said the disciple:
— I no longer understand the anger that made me bare the steel.
Said the master:
— I usually speak in parables for the truth to be inscribed in the souls, but I will speak with you as a father speaks with his son. I am not that man who sinned; you are not that murderer and there is no reason for you to continue being his slave. Your duties are that of every man: to be fair and to be happy. You yourself must save yourself. If something has remained of your fault, I will bear it.
The rest of that dialogue has been lost.