or St. Hedwiga's chilblains, John Mytton's two hours' crawl on the
ice in his shirt, after a flock of wild ducks. They both endured
like heroes; but the former for a selfish, if not a blasphemous end;
the latter, as a man should, to test and strengthen his own powers
of endurance. . . . There, I will say no more. Go your way, in
God's name. There must be lessons to be learnt in all strong and
self-restraining action. . . . So you will learn something from the
scourge and the hair-shirt. We must all take the bitter medicine of
suffering, I suppose.'

'And, therefore, I am the wiser, in forcing the draught on myself.'

'Provided it be the right draught, and do not require another and
still bitterer one to expel the effects of the poison. I have no
faith in people's doctoring themselves, either physically or
spiritually.'

'I am not my own physician; I follow the rules of an infallible
Church, and the examples of her canonised saints.'

'Well . . . perhaps they may have known what was best for
themselves. . . . But as for you and me here, in the year 1849. . .
. However, we shall argue on for ever. Forgive me if I have
offended you.'

'I am not offended. The Catholic Church has always been a
persecuted one.'

'Then walk with me a little way, and I will persecute you no more.'