Then there was utter silence. John, who had a hundred ways of twisting this subject, and was ready with his lancet to probe the outer covering of all professions, and who believed that he could meet all arguments with sneers; was silenced by a name. He did not believe in religion, nor in churches, nor in ministers, nor in the Bible; at least he had sharply told himself that he did not. But was he prepared to say plainly, here in the stillness of the winter night, under the gaze of the solemn stars, that he did not believe there was such a person as Jesus Christ?
Foolish disciple of a foolish infidel though he thought he was, something, he did not know what, some unseen, unrealized power, kept him from speaking those blasphemous and false words; yes, for he knew in his heart that to deny his belief in the existence of such a person would be as false as it was foolish.
He would have been glad to have had Louise advance her arguments, press the subject, be as personal as she pleased—anything rather than this solemn silence; it made him strangely uneasy.
But Louise only waited; then presently she repeated her question.
"Why, of course, I suppose so," was at last John's unwilling admission.
"Are you very familiar with his history?"
Another trying question. Why could not she argue, if she wanted to, like a sensible person? He was willing to meet her half-way; but these short, simple, straightforward questions were very trying.
"Not remarkably, I guess," he answered at last with a half-laugh.
What an admission for a man to have to make who was expected to prove why he did not believe in anything!
But Louise had apparently no intention of making him prove anything.