"I say," he answered, "that that man did not know what he was talking about, for faith is a great creative feeling. It is born from the overflow of the life-forces in man. Its strength is enormous and it incites the youthful human spirit, driving it to action, for man is bound and narrowed by his activities, and the outside world hinders him in every way. Everything demands that he produce bread and iron, but not the live treasure which is in the lap of his soul. He does not yet understand how to take advantage of this treasure. He is afraid of the uproar in his soul. He creates monstrosities and he fears the reflection of his turbid spirit. He does not understand its being and he bows to the forms of faith, to his own shadows, I might say."
I did not understand him that minute, but for some reason I became deeply enraged, and I thought to myself: "Now, I will not let you go away from this place before you answer the root of the question." I asked him sternly:
"Why do you evade the question of God?"
He looked at me, frowned and said:
"But, my dear boy, I am speaking about Him all the time. Do you not feel it?"
He stood on his knees and the fire played on him. He held my hand and spoke low and impressively:
"Who is God, the worker of miracles? Is He our Father, or is He the child of our soul?"
I remember that I started and looked about me, for I felt uncomfortable. Insanity spoke in the old man.
Dark shadows lay about and I listened, while the murmur of the woods crept around us, drowning the weak crackle of the burning coal and the quiet sound of the river. I, too, wanted to kneel.
Then he spoke loudly, as if in argument: