" But was not this a strange
grafting--a spur for a crucifix, a crossbow for a place of prayer?
_Reviresco_--There was sap indeed in the old tree; but from what soil did
it draw its strength?
His heart began to burn with something like shame, as it had burned now
and again at intervals during these past years. Here he lay back in his
father's chair, in his father's room, the first Protestant of the
Maxwells. Then he passed on to a memory.
As he closed his eyes, he could see even now the chapel upstairs, with
the tapers alight and the stiff figure of the priest in the midst of the
glow; he could smell the flowers on the altar, the June roses strewn on
the floor in the old manner, and their fresh dewy scent mingled with the
fragrance of the rich incense in an intoxicating chord; he could hear the
rustle that emphasised the silence, as his mother rose from his side and
went up for communion, and the breathing of the servants behind him.
Then for contrast he remembered the whitewashed church where he attended
now with his wife, Sunday by Sunday, the pulpit occupied by the black
figure of the virtuous Mr. Bodder pronouncing his discourse, the great
texts that stood out in their new paint from the walls, the table that
stood out unashamed and sideways in the midst of the chancel. And which
of the two worships was most like God?...
Then he compared the worshippers in either mode. Well, Drake, his hero,
was a convinced Protestant; the bravest man he had ever met or dreamed
of--fiery, pertinacious, gloriously insolent.
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