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Act II.
' The Stranger (Christian) has entered, following
i Stran. (Coming forward.) Two men keep it in
these troublous times ! Nay, start not! You know
t my voice, and have seen me frequently.
Jul. I have. But I cannot guess the motive that
t leads you thus repeatedly to cross my path. You
k know not me, and to me you are totally unknown ;
f yet, throughout my journey, have you followed as
my shadow. I like not mystery—and do desire we
may continue strangers.
Stran. You are like the old Romans, who held
that hostes meant both a stranger and an enemy;
I will therefore be no longer a stranger :—My name
is Ganlesse, a Roman Catholic priest, travelling here
in dread of my life—and glad to have you for a
Jul. Master Ganlesse, keep your own road, and
I will keep mine. I desire not your company, and
would be private.
Stran. Well, then. I’ll strike another key. No
longer Ganlesse, the seminary priest, behold me
Simon Canter, a preacher of the word. What say
. you now, Sir ? is my company more welcome ?
Jul. Not a whit. Sir. Your versatility is admi-
rable, but I prefer sincerity.
Stran. Sincerity ! A child’s whistle with but two
notes in it,—yea, yea, and nay, nay. An you wish
to thrive, renounce it, man, and, in its stead, adopt
that gallant recorder, called hypocrisy, that is some-
i thing like sincerity in form, but of much greater com¬
pass, and combines the whole gamut.
Jul. I wish you good night. Sir. My business
cries haste; and our sentiments differ widely. The
times are perilous; and a man’s life may depend on
the society in which he travels.