Their minds, lately estranged, seemed suddenly to have been drawn
closer, one to the other.
--Do you believe in the eucharist? Cranly asked.
--I do not, Stephen said.
--Do you disbelieve then?
--I neither believe in it nor disbelieve in it, Stephen answered.
--Many persons have doubts, even religious persons, yet they overcome
them or put them aside, Cranly said. Are your doubts on that point too
strong?
--I do not wish to overcome them, Stephen answered.
Cranly, embarrassed for a moment, took another fig from his pocket and
was about to eat it when Stephen said:
--Don't, please. You cannot discuss this question with your mouth full
of chewed fig.
Cranly examined the fig by the light of a lamp under which he halted.
Then he smelt it with both nostrils, bit a tiny piece, spat it out and
threw the fig rudely into the gutter.
Addressing it as it lay, he said:
--Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire!
Taking Stephen's arms, he went on again and said:
--Do you not fear that those words may be spoken to you on the day of
Judgement?
--What is offered me on the other hand? Stephen asked. An eternity of
bliss in the company of the dean of studies?
--Remember, Cranly said, that he would be glorified.
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