‘I can, at least, pray day and night for all mankind. Has that no place—or rather, has it not the mightiest place—in the communion of saints!
‘He who cannot pray for his brothers whom he does see, and whose sins and temptations he knows, will pray but dully, my friend Aufugus, for his brothers whom he does not see, or for anything else. And he who will not labour for his brothers, the same will soon cease to pray for them, or love them either. And then, what is written? “If a man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how will he love God whom he hath not seen?”’
‘Again, I say, do you know whither your argument leads?’
‘I am a plain man, and know nothing about arguments. If a thing be true, let it lead where it will, for it leads where God wills.’
‘But at this rate, it were better for a man to take a wife, and have children, and mix himself up in all the turmoil of carnal affections, in order to have as many as possible to love, and fear for, and work for.’
Pambo was silent for a while.
‘I am a monk and no logician. But this I say, that thou leavest not the Laura for the desert with my good will. I would rather, had I my wish, see thy wisdom installed somewhere nearer the metropolis—at Troe or Canopus, for example—where thou mightest be at hand to fight the Lord’s battles. Why wert thou taught worldly wisdom, but to use it for the good of the Church? It is enough. Let us go.’
And the two old men walked homeward across the valley, little guessing the practical answer which was ready for their argument in Abbot Pambo’s cell, in the shape of a tall and grim ecclesiastic, who was busily satisfying his hunger with dates and millet, and by no means refusing the palm-wine, the sole delicacy of the monastery, which had been brought forth only in honour of a guest.
The stately and courtly hospitality of Eastern manners, as well as the self-restraining kindliness of monastic Christianity, forbade the abbot to interrupt the stranger; and it was not till he had finished a hearty meal that Pambo asked his name and errand.
‘My unworthiness is called Peter the Reader. I come from Cyril, with letters and messages to the brother Aufugus.’