“It is in vain, sir,” replied Jane; “and if I have hitherto repressed my anger at these solicitations, it is because feeling firm in myself, I look upon them merely as an annoyance, to which it is my duty to submit with patience. But when I perceive the mischief they have done to others, I can no longer contain my indignation. Yours is a pernicious and idolatrous religion,—a religion founded on the traditions of men, not on the word of God—a religion detracting from the merits of our Saviour—substituting mummery for the simple offices of prayer,—and though I will not be uncharitable enough to assert that its sincere professors will not be saved,—yet I am satisfied, that no one to whom the true light of heaven has once been vouchsafed, can believe in it, or be saved by it.” “Since you are thus obstinate, daughter,” replied Feckenham, “let us dispute point by point, and dogma by dogma, of our creeds, and I think I can convince you of the error in which you rest. Do not fear wearying me. I cannot be better employed.” “Pardon me, then, sir, if I reply, than I can be far better employed,” returned Jane; “and, though I would not shrink from such a discussion—were it useful,—and do not fear its result, yet, as no good can arise from it, I must decline it.” “As you please, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham. “But I must own that your refusal to accept my challenge seems a tacit admission of the weakness of your cause.” “Put what construction you please upon it, sir,—so you leave me in peace,” replied Jane. “I will fight the good fight when called upon to do so. But I will not waste the little time that remains to me in fruitless disputation.” “Before I depart, however, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham, “let me deliver your husband’s message to you.” “What is it?” inquired Jane, eagerly,—“and yet, I almost dread to ask.” “He implored you not to be his executioner,” answered Feckenham. “His executioner!—my husband’s executioner!—oh, no!—no! that I can never be!” cried Jane, bursting into tears. “That you will be, unless you consent,” replied the priest, coldly. “I beseech you, sir, urge me no further,” rejoined Jane. “I would lay down my life for my husband a thousand times, but I cannot save him thus. Tell him that I will pray for him night and day,—and oh! tell him that his swerving from his faith has wounded me more severely than the axe will ever do.” “I shall tell him that I left you in the same obstinate state I found you—deaf to the voice of truth—inaccessible to natural affection, and besotted with heresy. Daughter, you love not your husband.”