“They rarely mention you,” I commented.
“We are out of fashion. The inferior power generally is. They are so absorbed in worshipping the Trinity that they ignore us altogether. Besides, humanity is tender, it has to be coaxed with love.” He spoke softly, but underlying the tone there was a sneer as cruel as it was true.
I remember the next cell we visited was that of a little man who, when we entered, was writing.
“He is a poet—or rather was,” whispered my companion. “Watch him, as he is interesting. He is, or rather was, a Frenchman, who by his books kicked over their religion like a footstool.”
After a while the poet stopped and jumped up. He was a funny little creature, even at the best of times.
“It’s happened again,” he exclaimed. “I’m mad to attempt it—no one will read it as it is.”
Then he saw us and came forward precipitately.
“Sir,” he said, catching hold of Vestasian by the arm, “just come and look.”
He went forward.
“Well?” Vestasian asked.