"Hum," he considered. "First of all, this Medina affair. Let him do the challenging. She says you do not fence. 'Twould be butchery for you to meet him with swords."
"That is a small matter, padre. What I wish to know—"
"Is whether you can conscientiously become a Christian," he put in.
"No, padre. That is not the question. It is of no use for me to hedge. I know I cannot become what you call a Christian. My religious principles are too near those of our famous President, Thomas Jefferson."
"Jefferson—that atheist!" he exclaimed, frowning.
"Not so, padre," I insisted with much earnestness. "It is an injustice to term Mr. Jefferson an atheist."
"And you?" he demanded.
"Your Reverence, I differ from most men of the age in this: I am content to leave creeds and ceremonies to the theologians; to walk as upright a life as lies within my power; and to trust in the great Author of all to judge my deeds with the clemency of a father for his child."
"You do not acknowledge God's vicar?"
"I have not the faith which enables me to believe your dogmas. It is no use to argue, padre. I am already sufficiently informed to know that a man of my refractory mentality cannot accept many of the fundamentals of your faith,—and I will not make false pretence by complying with the outward form."