o nailed him to the cross, we should
not only forgive but love those who injure us, and return them good for
evil; it is not enough to love the good, we must love the wicked also,
since by love alone is it possible to expel from them evil.

Chilo at these words thought to himself that his work had gone for
nothing, that never in the world would Ursus dare to kill Glaucus,
either that night or any other night. But he comforted himself at once
by another inference from the teaching of the old man; namely, that
neither would Glaucus kill him, though he should discover and recognize
him.

Vinicius did not think now that there was nothing new in the words of
the old man, but with amazement he asked himself: "What kind of God is
this, what kind of religion is this, and what kind of people are these?"
All that he had just heard could not find place in his head simply. For
him all was an unheard-of medley of ideas. He felt that if he wished,
for example, to follow that teaching, he would have to place on a
burning pile all his thoughts, habits, and character, his whole nature
up to that moment, burn them into ashes, and then fill himself with a
life altogether different, and an entirely new soul. To him the science
or the religion which commanded a Roman to love Parthians, Syrians,
Greeks, Egyptians, Gauls, and Britons, to forgive enemies, to return
them good for evil, and to love them, seemed madness. At the same
time he had a feeling that in that madness itself there was something
mightier than all philosophies so far. He thought that because of its
madness it was impracticable, but because of its impracticability it was
divine. In his soul he rejected it; but he felt that he was parting as
if from a field full of spikenard, a kind of intoxicating incense;
when a man has once breathed of this he must, as in the land of the
lotus-eaters, forget all things else ever after, and yearn for it only.

It seemed to him that there was nothing real in that religion, but that
reality in presence of it was so paltry that it deserved not the time
for thought. Expanses of some kind, of which hitherto he had not had a
suspicion, surrounded him,--certain immensities, certain clouds. That
cemetery began to produce on him the impression of a meeting-place for
madmen, but also of a place mysterious and awful, in which, as on a
mystic bed, something was in progress of birth the like of which had
not been in the world so far. He brought before