"Nothing," he answered. "If I did imagine that, there would be none. There is no such thing as matter. Mind—Soul—is the only existence, Lady."
"What nonsense is the boy talking!" growled the Baron.
"But, I pray you, Messire Renaud," said I, "if I do not exist, how does the idea that I do exist get into my head?"
"How do I have a head for it to get into?" added Guy.
"Stuff and nonsensical rubbish!" said the Baron. "Under leave of my Lady Queen,—lad, thou hast lost thy senses. No such thing as matter, quotha! Why, there is nothing but matter that is in reality. What men call the soul is simply the brain. Give over thy fanciful stuff!"
"You are a Realist, Messire?" asked Guy.
"Call me what name you will, Sir Count," returned the Baron. "I am no such fool as yon lanky lad of mine. I believe what I see and hear, and there I begin and end. So does every wise man."
"Is it not a little odd," inquired Guy, "that everybody should think all the wise men must believe as he does?"
"Odd? No!" said the Baron. "Don't you think so yourself, Sir Count?"
Guy laughed. "But there is one thing I should like to know," said he. "I have heard much of Realists and Nominalists, but I never before met one of either. I wish to ask each of you, Messires,—In your system, what becomes of the soul after death?"