“Look, you hardhearted monks, at these dirt-poor villages and towns. In their houses the sick writhe on beds of agony, in their jails the wretched watch their days vanish, before their doors beggars plead, on their streets the poor sleep, and in their graveyards widows and orphans lament. Meanwhile, you here enjoy the ease of loafing about in your albs, and revel in the fruits of your fields and the wines of your vineyards. You do not visit the sick or prisoners, or feed the hungry, or house the poor, or cheer the forlorn. Would that you contented yourselves with what you have, and made do with what you usurped from our grandfathers by your ruses. But you strike with your hands the way a snake strikes with its fangs, and use force to deprive the widow of what she has earned with her own two hands, and what the peasant has stored up for his old age.”

Yuhanna fell silent as he regained his breath, then raised his head with pride and said quietly, “You are many here, and I am alone. Do with me what you wish. For wolves prey on the ewe in the dark of night, but the traces of her blood remain on the pebbles of the valley until the dawn arrives and the sun rises.”

Yuhanna’s voice, as he spoke, exhibited a sublime power that immobilized the bodies of the monks and provoked rage and fury in their souls. Like ravens in a cage, they trembled with anger and gnashed their teeth, scrutinizing their superior for a signal to rend him limb from limb and crush him into powder. When he had finished speaking, a quiet ensued like the calm after a storm has broken off lofty branches and dry trunks.

Their leader shrieked at them, “Seize that wretched criminal, confiscate his book, and drag him to a darkened room in the monastery! Whoso blasphemes against the chosen of God shall not be forgiven either here or in the hereafter.”

The monks attacked Yuhanna like jackals assaulting their quarry, and they led him, bound, to a narrow cell, locking the door after they had worn down his body with harsh blows from their hands and kicks from their feet.

In that gloomy room Yuhanna stood, like a longtime victor whom the enemy had finally managed to capture, and looked out from the long, narrow aperture on the valley full of the light of day. His visage glowed, and he felt a spiritual rapture embrace his soul and a sweet serenity that possessed his emotions. The confining cell imprisoned only his body, whereas his soul remained at liberty, billowing with the breeze between hill and meadow. The hands of the monks, which inflicted pain on his members, had not touched his emotions, which were safeguarded in the precincts of Jesus of Nazareth. If a man be just, no persecution can torture him, and no tyranny can destroy him if he has right on his side. Socrates drank down his hemlock with a smile on his face, and Paul rejoiced while being stoned. But it is our hidden conscience that pains us if we violate it, and condemns us if we betray it.