Bathe thee in the fumes of wine, my pallid guest! Refresh thee. Feel, feel—it mounts aloft like the smoke of sacrifice.
The Voice.
The smoke of sacrifice does not always mount.
Julian.
Why does that scar redden on thy brow? Nay, nay,—draw not the hair over it; What is it?
The Voice.
The mark.
Julian.
H’m; no more of that. And what fruit has thy sin borne?
The Voice.