Endless other quaint dialogues passed between mother and son on that
tedious and harassing journey southwards.
"There'll be no more snow when we get to Italy," Brum explained.
"Italy's the land of beauty--always sunshine and blue sky. It's the
country of the old Gods--Venus, the goddess of beauty; Juno, with her
peacocks; Jupiter, with his thunderbolts, and lots of others."
"But I thought the Pope was a Christian," said Zillah.
"So he is. It was long ago, before people believed in Christianity."
"But then they were all Jews."
"Oh no, mother. There were Pagan gods that people used to believe in
at Rome and in Greece. In Greece, though, these gods changed their
names."
"So!" said Zillah scornfully; "I suppose they wanted to have a fresh
chance. And what's become of them now?"
"They weren't ever there, not really."
"And yet people believed in them? Is it possible?" Zillah clucked her
tongue with contemptuous surprise. Then she murmured mechanically,
"'Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, who openest the eyes of the
blind.'"
"Well, and what do people believe in now? The Pope!" Brum reminded
her. "And yet _he's_ not true."
Zillah's heart sank. "But he's really there," she protested feebly.
"Oh yes, he's there, because pilgrims come from all parts of the world
to get his blessing."
Her hopes revived.
"But they wouldn't come unless he really did them good."
"Well, if you argue like that, mother, you might as well say we ought
to believe in Christ."
"Hush! hush!" The forbidden word jarred on Zillah. She felt chilled
and silenced. She had to call up the image of the Irish Fire-Woman to
restore herself to confidence. It was clear Brum must not be told; his
unfaith might spoil all. No, the deception must be kept up till his
eyes were opened--in more than one sense.