Our first discourse was about Jerusalem, the Holy Sepulchre, Calvary, the City of David, and the Mountain of Olives, with the situations of which she was perfectly well acquainted. She then asked me to tell her truly if I was not a Frank? “Madam,” said I, “if I was a Catholic, which you mean by Frank, there could be no greater folly than my concealing this from you in the beginning, after the assurance Ayto Aylo has just now given; and, in confirmation of the truth I am now telling, (she had a large bible lying on the table before her, upon which I laid my hand), I declare to you, by all those truths contained in this book, that my religion is more different from the Catholic religion than your’s is: that there has been more blood shed between the Catholics and us, on account of the difference of religion, than ever was between you and the Catholics in this country; even at this day, when men are become wiser and cooler in many parts of the world, it would be full as safe for a Jesuit to preach in the market-place of Gondar, as for any priest of my religion to present himself as a teacher in the most civilized of Frank or Catholic countries.”--“How is it then,” says she, “that you don’t believe in miracles?” “I see, Madam,” said I, “Ayto Aylo has informed you of a few words that some time ago dropt from me. I do certainly believe the miracles of Christ and his apostles, otherwise I am no Christian; but I do not believe these miracles of latter times, wrought upon trifling occasions, like sports, and jugglers tricks.”--“And yet,” says she, “our books are full of them.”--“I know they are,” said I, “and so are those of the Catholics: but I never can believe that a saint converted the devil, who lived, forty years after, a holy life as a monk; nor the story of another saint, who, being sick and hungry, caused a brace of partridges, ready-roasted, to fly upon his plate that he might eat them.”--“He has been reading the Synaxar,” says Ayto Aylo. “I believe so,” says she, smiling; “but is there any harm in believing too much, and is not there great danger in believing too little?”--“Certainly,” continued I; “but what I meant to say to Ayto Aylo was, that I did not believe laying a picture upon Welled Hawaryat would recover him when delirious in a fever.” She answered, “There was nothing impossible with God.” I made a bow of assent, wishing heartily the conversation might end there.