Alwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and half ashamed—the earnestly spoken words moved him more than he cared to show—his head drooped—he made no reply. After all, he thought, he had really no more substantial foundation for his unbelief than others had for their faith. With all his studies in the modern schools of science, he was not a whit more advanced in learning than Democritus of old—Democritus who based his system of morals on the severest mathematical lines, taking as his starting-point a vacuum and atoms, and who after stretching his intellect on a constant rack of searching inquiry for years, came at last to the unhappy conclusion that man is absolutely incapable of positive knowledge, and that even if truth is in his possession he can never be certain of it. Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser than Democritus? … or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the clear, pathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of Christ on his breast, wiser than both? … wiser in the wisdom of eternal things than any of the subtle-minded ancient Greek philosophers or modern imitators of their theories? Was there, COULD there be something not yet altogether understood or fathomed in the Christian creed? … as this idea occurred to him he looked up and met his companion's calm gaze fixed upon him with a watchful gentleness and patience.
"Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas?" he asked, with a forced laugh.
"I assure you they are not worth the trouble."
Heliobas smiled, but made no answer. Just then one of the monks entered the room with a large lighted lamp, which he set on the table, and the conversation thus interrupted was not again resumed.
The evening shadows were now closing in rapidly, and already above the furthest visible snow-peak the first risen star sparkled faintly in the darkening sky. Soon the vesper bell began ringing as it had rung on the previous night when Alwyn, newly arrived, had sat alone in the refectory, listlessly wondering what manner of men he had come amongst, and what would be the final result of his adventure into the wilds of Caucasus. His feelings had certainly undergone some change since then, inasmuch as he was no longer disposed to ridicule or condemn religious sentiment, though he was nearly as far from actually believing in Religion itself as ever. The attitude of his mind was still distinctly skeptical—the immutable pride of what he considered his own firmly rooted convictions was only very slightly shaken—and he now even viewed the prospect of his journey to the "field of Ardath" as a mere fantastic whim—a caprice of his own fancy which he chose to gratify just for the sake of curiosity.
But notwithstanding the stubbornness of the materialistic principles with which he had become imbued, his higher instincts were, unconsciously to himself, beginning to be aroused—his memory involuntarily wandered back to the sweet, fresh days of his earliest manhood before the poison of Doubt had filtered through his soul—his character, naturally of the lofty, imaginative, and ardent cast, re-asserted its native force over the blighting blow of blank Atheism which had for a time paralyzed its efforts—and as he unwittingly yielded more and more to the mild persuasions of these genial influences, so the former Timon-like bitterness of his humor gradually softened. There was no trace in him now of the dark, ironic, and reckless scorn that, before his recent visionary experience, had distinguished his whole manner and bearing—the smile came more readily to his lips—and he seemed content for the present to display the sunny side of his nature—a nature impassioned, frank, generous, and noble, in spite of the taint of overweening, ambitions egotism which somewhat warped its true quality and narrowed the range of its sympathies. In his then frame of mind, a curious, vague sense of half-pleasurable penitence was upon him,—delicate, undefined, almost devotional suggestions stirred his thoughts with the refreshment that a cool wind brings to parched and drooping flowers,—so that when Heliobas, taking up the silver "Esdras" reliquary and preparing to leave the apartment in response to the vesper summons, said gently, "Will you attend our service, Mr. Alwyn?" he assented at once, with a pleased alacrity which somewhat astonished himself as he remembered how, on the previous evening, he had despised and inwardly resented all forms of religious observance.
However, he did not stop to consider the reason of his altered mood, … he followed the monks into chapel with an air of manly grace and quiet reverence that became him much better than the offensive and defensive demeanor he had erewhile chosen to assume in the same prayer-hallowed place,—he listened to the impressive ceremonial from beginning to end without the least fatigue or impatience,—and though when the brethren knelt, he could not humble himself so far as to kneel also, he still made a slight concession to appearances by sitting down and keeping his head in a bent posture—"out of respect for the good intentions of these worthy men," as he told himself, to silence the inner conflict of his own opposing and contradictory sensations. The service concluded, he waited as before to see the monks pass out, and was smitten with a sudden surprise, compunction, and regret, when Heliobas, who walked last as usual, paused where he stood, and confronted him, saying:
"I will bid you farewell here, my friend! … I have many things to do this evening, and it is best I should see you no more before your departure."
"Why?" asked Alwyn astonished—"I had hoped for another conversation with you."
"To what purpose!" inquired Heliobas mildly. "That I should assert … and you deny … facts that God Himself will prove in His own way and at His own appointed time? Nay, we should do no good by further arguments."
"But," stammered Alwyn hastily, flushing hotly as he spoke, "you give me no chance to thank you … to express my gratitude."