'What a nation of revolutionists you are in America! What does it feel like, I wonder, to be a people without a past, without traditions?'
Lucy exclaimed: 'Why, we are made of traditions!'
'Traditions of revolt and self-will are no traditions,' he said provokingly. 'The submission of the individual to the whole—that's what you know nothing of.'
'We shall know it when we want it! But it will be a free submission—given willingly.'
'No priests allowed? Oh! you will get your priests. You are getting them.
No modern nation can hold together without them.'
They sparred a little longer. Then Lucy's momentary spirit of fight departed. She looked wistfully to see how near they were to Genzano. Manisty approached her more closely.
'Did my nonsense cheer you—or tire you?' he said in a different voice. 'I only meant it to amuse you, Hark!—did you hear that sound?'
They stopped. Above them, to the right, they saw through the dusk a small farm in a patch of vineyard. A dark figure suddenly hurled itself down a steep path towards them. Other figures followed it—seemed to wrestle with it; there was a confused wailing and crying—the piteous shrill lamenting of a woman's voice.
'Oh, what is it?' cried Lucy, clasping her hands.
Manisty spoke a few sharp words to the man leading the horse. The man stood still and checked his beast. Manisty ran towards the sounds and the dim struggle on the slope above them.