“You are angry with my mother,” said the younger man with a look of melancholy entreaty, “but you know there is nothing that she would not sacrifice for the faith.  And you can smile so bitterly!  But only put yourself in my place.  Loving my mother as I do, it is acutely painful to me to see another person—­to see you whom I love, too, for you are my friend and brother—­to see you, I say, turn your back on her so completely.  My heart is heavy enough to-day I can tell you.”

“Poor boy!” said the countryman.  “Yes, I am truly your friend, and am anxious to remain so; you are not to blame in this business—­and for that matter, I am anything but cheerful.  You have chosen to say:  Down with the shrines!  Perish all those who do not think as we do!  Still, look at the thing as you will, in some cases certainly violence must ensue—­nay, if no blood is shed it will be a wonder!  You sum up the matter in one common term:  The heathen peasants on the estate.  My view of it is totally different; I know these farmers and their wives and children, each one by name and by sight.  There is not one but is ready to bid me good day and shake my hand or kiss my dress.  Many a one has come to me in tears and left me happy.—­By the great Zeus! no one ever accused me of being soft-hearted, but I could wish this day that I were harder; and my blood turns to gall as I ask—­What is all this for—­to what possible end?”

“For the sake and honor of the faith, Demetrius; for the eternal salvation of our people.”

“Indeed!” retorted Demetrius with a drawl, “I know better.  If that and that alone were intended you would build churches and chapels and send us worthy priests—­Eusebius and the like—­and would try to win men’s hearts to your Lord by the love you are always talking so much about.  That was my advice to your mother, only this morning.  I believe the end might be attained by those means, among us as elsewhere; ultimately it will, no doubt, be gained—­but not to-day nor to-morrow.  A peasant, when he had become accustomed to the church and grasped a trust in the new God, would of his own accord give up the old gods and their sanctuaries; I could count you off a dozen such instances.  That I could have looked on at calmly, for I want only men’s arms and legs and do not ask for their souls; but to burn down the old house before you have collected wood and stone to build a new one I call wicked.—­It is cruelty and madness, and when so shrewd a woman as your mother is bent on carrying through such a measure, come what may, there is something more behind it.”

“You think she wants to get rid of you—­you, Demetrius!” interrupted Marcus eagerly.  “But you are mistaken, you are altogether wrong.  What you have done for the estate . . .”

“Oh! as for that!” cried the other, “what has my work to do with all this?  Ere the year is out everything that can remind us of the heathen gods is to be swept away from the hamlets and fields of the pious Mary.  That is what is intended!  Then they will hurry off to the Bishop with the great news and to crown one marvel with another, the reversion will be secured of a martyr’s nimbus.  And this is what all this zeal is for—­this and nothing else!”