"But not as I know it! I, who have so much to make life worth the living." Thaddeus rubbed his sweaty palms on his velvet-clad thighs, his brown young face set. Abruptly, he blurted: "They say you possess the secret of immortality, Friar. Is that true?"
"They say many things of me," muttered the philosopher.
Carlyle leaned toward him. "That doesn't answer my question," he snapped. "I have heard that you added twenty years to your own life by magic!"
Bacon stared strangely at him. "You believe that I could save you from death?"
"Implicitly!" Carlyle replied. "If you wished to!"
For the first time, Bacon stirred from the chair. His eyes flashed briefly to a brass-bound chest, near his pallet of straw. Then he stopped with his back to the wall, staring at the young nobleman.
"But even if I could do this—!" he frowned. "You do not know what immortality means. Perhaps it would be worse than death!"
"If so, I could easily put an end to my immortality," retorted the other.
Roger Bacon did not speak for long seconds. Then: "They speak true of me. I do possess this secret. But to release it would mean one more atom of misery thrown upon the world."