“You will find,” said the priest, “that the greater number of African Christians at this moment, for of them I speak confidently, are converts in manhood, not the sons of Christians. On the other hand, if there be those who have left the faith, and gone up to the capitol to sacrifice, these were Christians by hereditary profession. Such is my experience, and I think the case is the same elsewhere.”

She seemed to be speaking more for the sake of getting answers than of objecting arguments. She paused again, and thought; then she said, “Mankind is made up of classes of very various mental complexion, as distinct from each other as the colours which meet the eye. Red and blue are incommensurable; and in like manner, a Magian never can become a Greek, nor a Greek a Cœlicolist. They do but make themselves fools when they attempt it.”

“Perhaps the most deeply convinced, the most tranquil-minded in the Christian body,” answered Cæcilius, “will tell you, on the contrary, that there was a time when they hated Christianity, and despised and ill-treated its professors.”

“I never did any such thing,” cried Callista, “since the day I first heard of it. I am not its enemy, but I cannot believe in it. I am sure I never could; I never, never should be able.”

“What is it you cannot believe?” asked the priest.

“It seems too beautiful,” she said, “to be anything else than a dream. It is a thing to talk about, but when you come near its professors you see it is impossible. A most beautiful imagination, that is what it is. Most beautiful its precepts, as far as I have heard of them; so beautiful, that in idea there is no difficulty. The mind runs along with them, as if it could accomplish them without an effort. Well, its maxims are too beautiful to be realized; and then on the other hand, its dogmas are too dismal, too shocking, too odious to be believed. They revolt me.”

“Such as what?” asked Cæcilius.

“Such as this,” answered Callista. “Nothing will ever make me believe that all my people have gone and will go to an eternal Tartarus.”

“Had we not better confine ourselves to something more specific, more tangible?” asked Cæcilius, gravely. “I suppose if one individual may have that terrible lot, another may—both may, many may. Suppose I understand you to say that you never will believe that you will go to an eternal Tartarus.”

Callista gave a slight start, and showed some uneasiness or displeasure.

“Is it not likely,” continued he, “that you are better able to speak of yourself, and to form a judgment about yourself, than about others? Perhaps if you could first speak confidently about yourself, you would be in a better position to speak about others also.”

“Do you mean,” she said, in a calm tone, “that my place, after this life, is an everlasting Tartarus?”