“O, every one to his taste, of course,” said Juba; “but to an unprejudiced mind there is something unworthy in the act.”
“Why, Juba?” said his brother somewhat sharply; “don’t you profess any religion at all?”
“Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t,” answered Juba; “but never shall it be a bowing and scraping, crawling and cringing religion. You may take your oath of that.”
“What ails you to come here at this time of night?” asked Agellius; “who asked for your company?”
“I will come just when I please,” said the other, “and go when I please. I won’t give an account of my actions to any one, God or man, devil or priest, much less to you. What right have you to ask me?”
“Then,” said Agellius, “you’ll never get peace or comfort as long as you live, that I can tell you, let alone the life to come.”
Juba kept silent for awhile, and bit his nails with a smile on his face, and his eyes looking askance upon the ground. “I want no more than I have; I am well content,” he said.
“Contented with yourself,” retorted Agellius.
“Of course,” Juba replied; “whom ought one to wish rather to content?”
“I suppose, your Creator.”