Alwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and half ashamed
--the earnestly spoken words moved him more than he cared to show--
his head drooped--he made no reply. After all, he thought, he had
really no more substantial foundation for his unbelief than others
had for their faith. With all his studies in the modern schools of
science, he was not a whit more advanced in learning than
Democritus of old--Democritus who based his system of morals on
the severest mathematical lines, taking as his starting-point a
vacuum and atoms, and who after stretching his intellect on a
constant rack of searching inquiry for years, came at last to the
unhappy conclusion that man is absolutely incapable of positive
knowledge, and that even if truth is in his possession he can
never be certain of it. Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser than
Democritus? ... or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the clear,
pathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of Christ on his
breast, wiser than both? ... wiser in the wisdom of eternal things
than any of the subtle-minded ancient Greek philosophers or modern
imitators of their theories? Was there, COULD there be something
not yet altogether understood or fathomed in the Christian creed?
... as this idea occurred to him he looked up and met his
companion's calm gaze fixed upon him with a watchful gentleness
and patience.

"Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas?" he asked, with a forced
laugh. "I assure you they are not worth the trouble."

Heliobas smiled, but made no answer. Just then one of the monks
entered the room with a large lighted lamp, which he set on the
table, and the conversation thus interrupted was not again