over others.

Upon this one thing only they differed; Felix did not oppose, did not
even argue, he was simply untouched. It was not that he believed in
anything else, nor that he doubted; he was merely indifferent. He had
too great a natural aptitude for the physical sciences, and too clear a
mind, to accept that which was taught by the one or the other of the two
chief opposing parties. Nor could he join in the ridicule and derision
of the gay courtiers, for the mystery of existence had impressed him
deeply while wandering alone in the forest. But he stood aloof; he
smiled and listened, unconvinced; like the wild creatures of the forest,
he had no ears for these matters. He loved Aurora, that was all.

But he felt the influence just the same; with all his powers of mind and
contempt of superstitions in others, he could not at times shake off the
apprehensions aroused by untoward omens, as when he stepped upon the
adder in the woods. Aurora knew nothing of such things; her faith was
clear and bright like a star; nothing could alarm her, or bring
uneasiness of mind. This beautiful calm, not cold, but glowing with hope
and love, soothed him.

That evening, with her hope and love, with her message of trust, she
almost persuaded him. He almost turned to what she had so long taught.
He almost repented of that hardness of heart, that unutterable distance,
as it were, between him and other men, which lay at the bottom of his
proposed expedition. He opened his lips to confess to her his purpose,
and had he done so assuredly she would have persuaded him from it. But
in the very act of speaking, he hesitated. It was characteristic of him
to do so. Whether she instinctively felt that there was something
concealed from her, or guessed that the discontent she knew he had so