"Thank God it's a ruin," said Paul savagely; "let's go."
"Wonder how long it took 'em to build it," remarked Judson as they walked away.
"Generations," said Paul. "When they first came, they starved in the forest on berries while they ploughed and planted lands, and lived in daub and wattle huts. Slowly, piece by piece, they raised all that, to the honour and glory of God. The place was a prayer in stone."
"They knew how to choose a site," remarked the practical Judson. "Wonder if it could be repaired?"
"And I wonder if it was answered," said Paul.
"What?"
"The prayer. Does the ruin look like it?"
"You're a rum ass," said Judson affectionately.
Paul kicked a stone savagely from his path. "I'm sick of being called a rum ass by everyone," he said. "I see nothing rum or asinine in what I said."
"You wouldn't," said Judson. "But then we aren't all poets," he added.