here, so he withdrew to the
shade of another tree, and sat down to think what he should do for
Lady Mabel's safety. To refresh himself and sharpen his wits, he took
more than one draught from the bottle. The wine being old, mild and
delicate in flavor, he classed it in the same category with small
beer, far underrating its beguiling potency. This _vinho maduro_, the
_vino generoso_ of the Spaniard, was that which maketh glad the heart
of man, being of a choice vintage from a famous vineyard. It was rich,
oily and deceiving.

"Had Moodie not been too impatient to stay with us longer," said
L'Isle, "he might have heard me admit, that though the Church of Rome
has kept the truth, it has not been content with it, but has mingled
with it so large a mass of falsehood, that the truth it teaches is no
longer pure. It has not thrown away the God-given treasure, but it has
piled over it such an ever accumulating heap of rubbish that it is not
easily found. It may have guarded the fountain of life-giving waters,
but has so hedged it in with a labyrinth of superstitions and
ceremonial rites, that it is almost inaccessible to the flock."

"Call Moodie back, and redeem yourself in his opinion," said Mrs.
Shortridge. "He is now mourning over your approaching conversion to
Rome."

"It is useless," said Lady Mabel. "Moodie sets no value on
half-truths."

"Moodie denies there being any Christianity left in Popery," said
L'Isle. "I assert that there is many a thorough, though unconscious
Papist among Protestants. Popery is not so much an accidental bundle
of errors, as a spontaneous and necessary growth from corrupt human
nature. Thus many a charity, with us, originates in the hope of
atoning for sins; many seek salvation through vicarious but human
means; many a sectarian, especially among women is not so much the
member of a church, as the follower of an idolized man. There are
Protestant popes, whose words are bulls in their little popedoms, and
Protestant saints who, unlike those of Rome, are canonized in life by
their handful of followers."

"I think I could find a patron saint for Moodie," said Lady Mabel. "At
least I do not think he would have been startled as I was, on hearing
a minister of the Kirk, after exhausting his powers of eulogy on the
great Apostle of the Gentiles, crown his praise by likening the
prisoner Paul preaching boldly in bonds before the Roman governor, in
whose hand was his life, to John Knox, the mout