it gratefully. I clasped his hand. He pressed mine. We gazed for a
moment silently into each other's eyes. He understood my bewilderment
amid my novel surroundings, and offered to enlighten me. He explained
to me the ringing of the bells and the meaning of the holiday crowds
moving in the streets. It was Sunday--Sunday before Christmas, and the
people were going to "the House of God."

"Of course you are going there, too," I said to my friendly guide.

"Yes," he answered, "I conduct the worship. I am a priest."

"A priest of Apollo?" I interrogated.

"No, no," he replied, raising his hand to command silence, "Apollo is
not a god; he was only an idol."

"An idol?" I whispered, taken by surprise.

"I perceive you are a Greek," he said to me, "and the Greeks," he
continued, "notwithstanding their distinguished accomplishments, were
an idolatrous people. They worshipped gods that did not exist. They
built temples to divinities which were merely empty names--empty
names," he repeated. "Apollo and Athene--and the entire Olympian lot
were no more than inventions of the fancy."

"But the Greeks loved their gods," I protested, my heart clamoring in
my breast.

"They were not gods, they were idols, and the difference between a god
and an idol is this: an idol is a thing; God is a living being. When