“It’s no for man to make any such unfounded promises,” said Lauderdale, hoarsely; “though you read till your heart’s sick, there’s nothing written like _that_. It’s a’ imaginations, and yearnings, and dreams. I’m no saying that it cannot be, or that it will not be, but I tell you there’s no such thing written; and, as far as I ken, or you ken, it may be a’ delusion and disappointment. Whisht, whisht, callants! Dinna entice each other out of this world, where there’s aye plenty to do for the like of you. I’m saying, Silence, sir!” cried the philosopher, with sudden desperation. And then he became aware that he had withdrawn the support which Meredith stood so much in need of. “A sober-minded man like me should have other company than a couple of laddies, with their fancies,” he said, in a hurried, apologetic tone; “but, as long as we’re together, you may as well take the good of me,” he added, holding out his arm, with a rare, momentary smile. As for Meredith, for once in his life--partly because of a little more emotion than usual, partly because his weakness felt instantly the withdrawal of a support which had become habitual to him--he felt beyond a possibility of doubt that further words would be out of season just at that moment: and they resumed their way a little more silently than usual. The road, like other Italian roads, was marked by here and there a rude shrine in a niche in the wall, or a cross erected by the wayside--neither of which objects possessed in the smallest degree the recommendation of picturesqueness which sentimental travellers attribute to them; for the crosses were of the rudest construction, as rude as if meant for actual use, and the poor little niches, each with its red-eyed Madonna daubed on the wall, suggested no more idea of beauty than the most arbitrary symbol could have done. But Meredith’s soul awoke within him when he saw the looks with which Colin regarded those shabby emblems of religious feeling. The Protestant paused to regain his breath, and could keep silence no more. “You look with interest at these devices of Antichrist,” said the sick man. “You think they promote a love of beauty, I suppose, or you think them picturesque. You don’t think how they ruin the souls of those who trust in them,” he said, eagerly and loudly; for they were passing another English party at that moment, and already the young missionary longed to accost them, and put his solemn questions about life and death to their (presumably) careless souls.