“Well, well,” continued my father, “but relic or no relic, there are many who, while they fully recognise the value of the Sunchild’s teaching, dislike these cock and bull stories as blasphemy against God’s most blessed gift of reason. There are many in Bridgeford who hate this story of the horses.” The youth was now quite reassured. “So there are here, sir,” he said warmly, “and who hate the Sunchild too. If there is such a hell as he used to talk about to my mother, we doubt not but that he will be cast into its deepest fires. See how he has turned us all upside down. But we dare not say what we think. There is no courage left in Erewhon.” Then waxing calmer he said, “It is you Bridgeford people and your Musical Banks that have done it all. The Musical Bank Managers saw that the people were falling away from them. Finding that the vulgar believed this foreign devil Higgs--for he gave this name to my mother when he was in prison--finding that--But you know all this as well as I do. How can you Bridgeford Professors pretend to believe about these horses, and about the Sunchild’s being son to the sun, when all the time you know there is no truth in it?” “My son--for considering the difference in our ages I may be allowed to call you so--we at Bridgeford are much like you at Sunch’ston; we dare not always say what we think. Nor would it be wise to do so, when we should not be listened to. This fire must burn itself out, for it has got such hold that nothing can either stay or turn it. Even though Higgs himself were to return and tell it from the house-tops that he was a mortal--ay, and a very common one--he would be killed, but not believed.” “Let him come; let him show himself, speak out and die, if the people choose to kill him. In that case I would forgive him, accept him for my father, as silly people sometimes say he is, and honour him to my dying day.” “Would that be a bargain?” said my father, smiling in spite of emotion so strong that he could hardly bring the words out of his mouth. “Yes, it would,” said the youth doggedly. “Then let me shake hands with you on his behalf, and let us change the conversation.” He took my father’s hand, doubtfully and somewhat disdainfully, but he did not refuse it. CHAPTER VI: FURTHER CONVERSATION BETWEEN FATHER AND SON--THE PROFESSORS’ HOARD It is one thing to desire a conversation to be changed, and another to change it. After some little silence my father said, “And may I ask what name your mother gave you?” “My name,” he answered, laughing, “is George, and I wish it were some other, for it is the first name of that arch-impostor Higgs. I hate it as I hate the man who owned it.” My father said nothing, but he hid his face in his hands. “Sir,” said the other, “I fear you are in some distress.”