He sprang up and began to pace the floor, while I gazed at him with a feeling of pity. A very learned person once told me that the troubles of these times bred four kinds of men, who were much to be compassionated: fanatics on the one side or the other, who lost sight of all else in the intensity of their faith; men who, like Simon Fleix, sought desperately after something to believe, and found it not; and lastly, scoffers, who, believing in nothing, looked on all religion as a mockery.
He presently stopped walking--in his utmost excitement I remarked that he never forgot my mother, but trod more lightly when he drew near the alcove--and spoke again.
'You are a Huguenot?' he said.
'Yes,' I replied.
'So is she,' he rejoined, pointing towards the bed. 'But do you feel no doubts?'
'None,' I said quietly.
'Nor does she,' he answered again, stopping opposite me. You made up your mind--how?'
'I was born in the Religion,' I said.
'And you have never questioned it?'
'Never.'