“The Church is not a thing like the Athenaeum Club,” he cried.  “If the Athenaeum Club lost all its members, the Athenaeum Club would dissolve and cease to exist.  But when we belong to the Church we belong to something which is outside all of us; which is outside everything you talk about, outside the Cardinals and the Pope.  They belong to it, but it does not belong to them.  If we all fell dead suddenly, the Church would still somehow exist in God.  Confound it all, don’t you see that I am more sure of its existence than I am of my own existence?  And yet you ask me to trust my temperament, my own temperament, which can be turned upside down by two bottles of claret or an attack of the jaundice.  You ask me to trust that when it softens towards you and not to trust the thing which I believe to be outside myself and more real than the blood in my body.”

“Stop a moment,” said Turnbull, in the same easy tone, “Even in the very act of saying that you believe this or that, you imply that there is a part of yourself that you trust even if there are many parts which you mistrust.  If it is only you that like me, surely, also, it is only you that believe in the Catholic Church.”

Evan remained in an unmoved and grave attitude.  “There is a part of me which is divine,” he answered, “a part that can be trusted, but there are also affections which are entirely animal and idle.”

“And you are quite certain, I suppose,” continued Turnbull, “that if even you esteem me the esteem would be wholly animal and idle?” For the first time MacIan started as if he had not expected the thing that was said to him.  At last he said: 

“Whatever in earth or heaven it is that has joined us two together, it seems to be something which makes it impossible to lie.  No, I do not think that the movement in me towards you was...was that surface sort of thing.  It may have been something deeper...something strange.  I cannot understand the thing at all.  But understand this and understand it thoroughly, if I loved you my love might be divine.  No, it is not some trifle that we are fighting about.  It is not some superstition or some symbol.  When you wrote those words about Our Lady, you were in that act a wicked man doing a wicked thing.  If I hate you it is because you have hated goodness.  And if I like you...it is because you are good.”

Turnbull’s face wore an indecipherable expression.

“Well, shall we fight now?” he said.

“Yes,” said MacIan, with a sudden contraction of his black brows, “yes, it must be now.”

The bright swords crossed, and the first touch of them, travelling down blade and arm, told each combatant that the heart of the other was awakened.  It was not in that way that the swords rang together when they had rushed on each other in the little garden behind the dealer’s shop.

There was a pause, and then MacIan made a movement as if to thrust, and almost at the same moment Turnbull suddenly and calmly dropped his sword.  Evan stared round in an unusual bewilderment, and then realized that a large man in pale clothes and a Panama hat was strolling serenely towards them.