“Of what, man, of what?”
“Of seeing the lady Eve ere long.”
“In this world or the next, Dick?”
“In this. I don’t reckon of the next, mayhap there we shall be blind and not see. Besides, of what use is that world to you where it is written that they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels? You’ll make no good angel, I’m thinking, while as for the lady Eve, she’s too human for it as yet.”
“Why do you think we shall see her on earth?” asked Hugh, ignoring these reflections.
“Because he who is called the Helper said as much, and whatever he may be he is no liar. Do you not remember what Red Eve told you when she awoke from that dream of hers, which was no dream? And do you not remember what Sir Andrew told you as to a certain meeting in the snow—pest upon it!” and he wiped some of the driving flakes from his face—“Sir Andrew, who is a saint, and, therefore, like Murgh, can be no liar?”
“If you think thus,” said Hugh in a new voice, “why did you not say so before?”
“Because I love not argument, master, and if I had, you would ever have reasoned with me from Avignon to Yarmouth town and spoilt my sleep of nights. Oh! where is your faith?”
“What is faith, Dick?”
“The gift of belief, master. A very great gift, seeing what a man believes is and will be true for him, however false it may prove for others. He who believes nothing, sows nothing, and therefore reaps nothing, good or ill.”