“Not the rustic population,” said L’Isle; “the church still retains full sway over them.”

“I cannot say,” observed Lady Mabel, as they turned to proceed on their way, “that the Romish system is very attractive to me.  But, viewing it as a sensuous worship, if ever I become a convert, it will be through the influence of its music.”  And dropping the reins on her horse’s neck, she, with clasped hands and upturned eyes, began to chant: 

  “O Sanctissima!  O Purissima! 
   Ora, Ora, pro nobis,” etc.

Music at once so sweet and orthodox from a heretic mouth, attracted the muleteer’s attention, and turning, he sat sideways in his saddle to listen.  This exciting old Moodie’s suspicion, he pushed his horse close up to Lady Mabel’s, and as soon as she paused, said:  “My lady, what is that you are singing?”

“A hymn to the Virgin.”

“A hymn to the Virgin!” he repeated, horror-struck.

“Yes; it is in Latin, you know.  Have you never been to any of the churches in Elvas, to ‘assist’ at the service and enjoy the music?”

“God forbid that I should countenance any of their idolatrous rites.”

“Their music, however, is excellent, and has a grandeur suited to the worship of God.  You lose much in not hearing it, and may, at least, let me amuse myself by singing a Popish hymn.”

“You may amuse yourself by turning Papist in time.  What begins in jest often ends in earnest; and yours, my lady, will not be the first soul that has been caught by such gear as the sweet sounds and glittering shows of idolatry.”

“But,” said Lady Mabel, coolly, with a provoking insensibility to her danger, “there are, not only in Latin, but in Spanish and Portuguese, many of these hymns to the Holy Virgin—­for, doubtless, she was a holy virgin—­exquisitely happy, both in words and music.  A devout nation has poured its heart into them.”

“They are all idolatrous, every one of them.  There is not a word of authority for the worship of her in Scripture, and the texts of God’s book are our only safe guide.”

Lady Mabel, while fanning a fire that never went out, was gazing around on the landscape.  Suddenly she said:  “You are a great stickler, Moodie, for the words of Scripture, yet these idolatrous people often stick to it more closely than you do.”

“I will trouble you, my lady, to name an instance,” Moodie answered, in a defiant tone.

“Do you see those men in that field, with three yoke of oxen going round and round on one spot?”

“I see them.  But what of them?”

“While you and other heretic Scots are racking your brains to devise how to thresh corn by machines, these pious people, in simple obedience to the injunction, ’Muzzle not the ox that treadeth out the corn,’ are treading out their corn with unmuzzled oxen.  What think you of that, Mr. Stick-to-the-text?”

“I think, my lady,” he answered, doggedly, “that you had better read your Bible to profit by it; not to puzzle an old man less learned than yourself.  But all things are ordered.”  Yet he loitered behind the party, to gaze with mingled curiosity and pity at these people, at once so benighted in theology and farming, the two points on which he felt himself strongest.