"Would'st call me selfish again, forsooth?"
"Nay, lord—a martyr. O, a very martyr that huggeth his chains and kisseth his wounds and joyeth in the recollection of his pain."
"Have I not suffered, Fidelis?"
"Thou hast known the jangling gloom of a dungeon—'twas at Garthlaxton
Keep, methinks?"
"Fetters!" cried Beltane, "a dungeon! These be things to smile at—my grief is of the mind—the deeper woe of high and noble ideals shattered—a holy altar blackened and profaned—a woman worshipped as divine, and proved baser than the basest!"
"And is this all, my lord?"
"All!" quoth Beltane amazed. "All!" saith he, turning to stare.
"So much of woe and tribulation for so little reason? Nay, hear me, for now will I make thee a prophecy, as thus: There shall dawn a day, lord Beltane, when thou shalt see at last and know Truth when she stands before thee. And, in that day thou shalt behold all things with new eyes: and in that day shalt thou sigh, and long, and yearn with all thy soul for these woeful hours wherein Self looms for thee so large thou art blind to aught else."
"Good Fidelis, thy prophecy is beyond my understanding."
"Aye, my lord, 'tis so I think, indeed!"