JACOB. How do you mean?
ERIC. He thinks every one is right, and that whatever happens is juste. There is something sensible and enlightened in his view of life. That's why my father hates him....
JACOB. Don't talk badly of your father. It sounds dreadful—if you will pardon me!
ERIC. But if he acts badly, why shouldn't I say so? And I hate him, for that matter!
JACOB. Don't say that—don't! The greatness of your royal father is so boundless that you can't grasp it.
ERIC. It only looks that way—I know! Last night he came up to me and put his arm around my shoulders—for the first time in my life—and I, who have been living in the belief that I barely came up to his hip, found to my surprise that I am as tall as he. But as soon as I looked at him from a distance again, he grew taller and turned into a giant.
JACOB. That's what he is. And he resembles one of Buonarotti's prophets—Isaiah, I think. And, verily, the Lord on high is with him.
ERIC. Do you really believe in God?
JACOB. Are you not ashamed of yourself?
ERIC. Well, what are you to believe in times like these, when kings and priests persecute the faithful and profane everything that used to be held sacred. And yet they call themselves "defenders of the faith."