The Fool sat very still awhile.
'Speak clearer,' he muttered; then of a sudden: 'What wouldst ask of me?'
'Ah! dear,' sighed Bembo; 'only that thou wouldst justify thyself of this new compact of ours.'
'I am clean—as thou readest love. Who but God would consort with Folly? The Fool is cursed to virginity.'
'Cicada, dear, but there is no Chastity without Temperance.'
The Fool tore himself away, and slunk crouching back upon the grass.
'I renounce thy God!' he chattered hoarsely, 'that would have me false to my love, my mistress, my one friend! Who has borne me through these passes, stood by me in pain and madness, dulled the bitter tooth of shame while it tore my entrails? Cure wantonness in women, gluttony in wolves, before you ask me to be dastard to my dear.'
'Alas!' cried Bembo, 'then am I lost indeed!'
A long pause followed, till in a moment the Fool had flung himself once more upon his face.
'Lay not this thing on me,' he cried, clutching at the grass; 'lay it not! It is to tear my last hope by the roots, to banish me from the kingdom of dreams, to bury me in the everlasting ice! I will follow thee in all else, humbly and adoringly; I will try to vindicate this love which has stooped from heaven to a clown; I will perish in thy service—only waste not my paradise in the moment of its realisation.'