“May not a little fault in copying engender a great heresy?”
“We will die for one letter!”
“Learn what is written in the old books, and repeat the Lord’s prayer unceasingly, this is all that is required.”
“Theodore, God’s enemy, thou dog of Hell! distinguish the Lord’s cross from that of Peter.”
“Christ’s cross hath a foot-stock!” Brother Julian tried to prove with a hoarse voice (he was the Reader at “Bank of Mosses.”) Usually quiet and meek, he now raged like a madman, with foam in his mouth, swollen veins on his temples, and bloodshot eyes.
Father Trophilius, another Reader, came to his help. He jumped up, like a flying-fish out of the water; his neck was stiff as a rod, he quaked and trembled from excessive zeal, his teeth chattered; his voice was like that of an infuriated camel, terrible, untameable in its passion.
He was no longer trying to prove anything, he only used bad language and got the same in return. They had begun with theology, they ended with mere scurrility.
“Satan has set up his house inside you.”
“You black scamp, you have sold your soul for a bottle of brandy!”
“Erring beasts!”