Alwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and half ashamed —­the earnestly spoken words moved him more than he cared to show—­ his head drooped—­he made no reply.  After all, he thought, he had really no more substantial foundation for his unbelief than others had for their faith.  With all his studies in the modern schools of science, he was not a whit more advanced in learning than Democritus of old—­Democritus who based his system of morals on the severest mathematical lines, taking as his starting-point a vacuum and atoms, and who after stretching his intellect on a constant rack of searching inquiry for years, came at last to the unhappy conclusion that man is absolutely incapable of positive knowledge, and that even if truth is in his possession he can never be certain of it.  Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser than Democritus? ... or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the clear, pathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of Christ on his breast, wiser than both? ... wiser in the wisdom of eternal things than any of the subtle-minded ancient Greek philosophers or modern imitators of their theories?  Was there, could there be something not yet altogether understood or fathomed in the Christian creed? ... as this idea occurred to him he looked up and met his companion’s calm gaze fixed upon him with a watchful gentleness and patience.

“Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas?” he asked, with a forced laugh.  “I assure you they are not worth the trouble.”

Heliobas smiled, but made no answer.  Just then one of the monks entered the room with a large lighted lamp, which he set on the table, and the conversation thus interrupted was not again resumed.

The evening shadows were now closing in rapidly, and already above the furthest visible snow-peak the first risen star sparkled faintly in the darkening sky.  Soon the vesper bell began ringing as it had rung on the previous night when Alwyn, newly arrived, had sat alone in the refectory, listlessly wondering what manner of men he had come amongst, and what would be the final result of his adventure into the wilds of Caucasus.  His feelings had certainly undergone some change since then, inasmuch as he was no longer disposed to ridicule or condemn religious sentiment, though he was nearly as far from actually believing in Religion itself as ever.  The attitude of his mind was still distinctly skeptical—­the immutable pride of what he considered his own firmly rooted convictions was only very slightly shaken—­and he now even viewed the prospect of his journey to the “field of Ardath” as a mere fantastic whim—­a caprice of his own fancy which he chose to gratify just for the sake of curiosity.