"The first sort," said Stafford, with a smile, "is nowadays a popular compromise." "I detest compromises. That's why I liked you." "You're advising me to make one now." "No, I advise you to throw up the whole thing." "That's because you don't believe in anything?" "Yes, probably." "Suppose you believed all I believe and had done all I had?" "How do you mean?" "You believed what a priest believes--in heaven and hell--the gaining God and the losing him--in good and evil. Supposing you, believing this, had given your life to God, and made your vow to him--had so proclaimed before men, had so lived and worked and striven! Supposing you thought a broken vow was death to your own soul and a trap to the souls of others--a baseness, a treason, a desertion--more cowardly than a soldier's flight--as base as a thief's purloining--meaning to you and those who had trusted you the death of good and the triumph of evil?" He sat still, but his voice was raised in rapid and intense utterance; he gazed before him with starting eyes. "All that," he went on, "it meant to me--all that and more--the triumph of the beast in me--passion and desire rampant--man forsaken and God betrayed--my peace forever gone, my honor forever stained. Can't you see? Can't you see?" Morewood rose and paced up and down. "Now--now can you judge? You say you knew--did you know that?" "Do you still believe all that?" "Yes, all, and more than all. For a moment--a day--perhaps a week, I drove myself to doubt. I tried to doubt--I rejoiced in it. But I cannot. As God is above us, I believe all that." "If you break this vow you think you will be--?" "The creature I have said? Yes--and worse." "I think the vow utter nonsense," said Morewood again. "But if you thought as I think, then would your love--yes, and would a girl's heart, weigh with you?" Morewood stood still. "I can hardly realize it," he said, "in a man of your brain. But--" "Yes?" said Stafford, looking at him almost as if he were amused, for his sudden outburst had left him quite calm. "If I believed that, I'd cut off my hand rather than break the vow." "I knew it!" cried Stafford, "I knew it!" Morewood was touched with pity. "If you're right," he said, "it won't be so hard to you. You'll get over it." "Get over it?" "Yes; what you believe will help you. You've no choice, you know." Stafford still wore a look of half-amusement. "You have never felt belief?" he asked. "Not for many years. That's all gone." "You think you have been in love?" "Of course I have--half a dozen times." "No more than the other," said Stafford decisively. Morewood was about to speak, but Stafford went on quickly: "I have told you what belief is--I could tell you what love is; you know no more the one than the other. But why should I? I doubt if you would understand. You think you couldn't be shocked. I should shock you. Let it be. I think I could charm you, too. Let that be."