"Believed in what, my friend?" said Obstinate, in a dull voice.
"About Mount Zion, and the Crowns of Glory, and the Harps of Gold, and such like," said Pliable uneasily—"at least, it is said so; so 'tis said."
"Believed!" retorted a smooth young man who seemed to feel the heat, and sat by the staircase door. "That's an easy task—to believe, sir. Ask any pretty minikin!"
"And I'd make bold to enquire of yonder Liveloose," said a thick, monotonous voice (a Mr. Dull's, so Reverie informed me), "if mebbe he be referring to one of his own, or that fellow Sloth's devilish fairy tales? I know one yet he'll eat again some day."
At which remark all laughed consumedly, save Dull.
"Well, one thing Christian had, and none can deny it," said Pliable, a little hotly, "and that was Imagination? I shan't forget the tales he was wont to tell: what say you, Superstition?"
Mr. Superstition lifted dark, rather vacant eyes on Pliable. "Yes, yes," he said: "Flame, and sigh, and lamentation. My God, my God, gentlemen!"
"Oo-ay, Oo-ay," yelped the voice of Mistrust, startled out of silence.
"Oo-ay," whistled Malice, under his breath.
"Tush, tush!" broke in Obstinate again, and snapped his fingers in the air. "And what is this precious Imagination? Whither doth it conduct a man, but to beggary, infamy, and the mad-house? Look ye to it, friend Pliable! 'Tis a devouring flame; give it but wind and leisure, the fairest house is ashes."