"Do men give life so easily?" Blondel answered, moving painfully in his chair.
"Yet you will give yours for them! You will give yours! And who will be a ducat the better?"
"I shall at least die for freedom," the Syndic muttered, gnawing his moustache.
"A word!"
"For the religion, then."
"It is that which men make it!" the scholar retorted. "There have been good men of all religions, though we dare not say as much in public, or in Geneva. 'Tis not the religion. 'Tis the way men live it! Was John Bernardino of Assisi, whom some call St. Francis, a worse man than Arnold of Brescia, the Reformer? Or is your Beza a better man than Messer Francis of Sales? Or would the heavens fall if Geneva embraced the faith of the good Archbishop of Milan? Words, Messer Blondel, believe me, words!"
"Yet men die for them!"
"Not wise men. And when you have died for them, who will thank you?" The Syndic groaned. "Who will know, or style you martyr?" Basterga continued forcibly. "Baudichon, whom you have called a fat hog? He will sit in your seat. Petitot—he said but a little while ago that he would buy this house if he lived long enough."
"He did?" The Syndic came to his feet as if a spring had raised him.
"Certainly. And he is a rich man, you know."