“I tell you I have nothing in common with the God you mean,” flashed out the girl.
Brisson, though interested, kept one grey eye on duty, ever hopeful of wolves. It was snowing hard now––a perfect geography scene, lacking only the 13 wolves; but the étape was only half finished. There might be hope.
The rather amazing conversation in the sleigh also appealed to him, arousing all his instincts of a veteran newspaper man, as well as his deathless curiosity––that perpetual flame which alone makes any intelligence vital.
Also, his passion for all documents––those sewed under his underclothes, as well as these two specimens of human documents––were now keeping his lively interest in life unimpaired.
“Loss of faith,” he said to Palla, and inclined toward further debate, “must be a very serious thing for any woman, I imagine.”
“I haven’t lost faith in love,” she said, smilingly aware that he was encouraging discussion.
“But you say you have lost faith in spiritual love––”
“I did not say so. I did not mean the other kind of love when I said that love is sufficient religion for me.”
“But spiritual love means Deity–––”
“It does not! Can you imagine the all-powerful father watching his child die, horribly––and never lifting a finger! Is that love? Is that power? Is that Deity?”