“But thou hast no proof.”
“Yes. The proof is here.”
“Oh, thou dost believe so? All men, all nations have their gods. This one bows down to a thing of stone, and calls it his god; another to the sun, and calls it his god. A god of brass—a god of gold—a god of wood. Each tells himself his is the true god. All are mistaken.”
“All are mistaken.”
“And thou? What is thy God? A fantasy—a vision—a superstition. Wilt thou die for such a thing?”
“I will die for my Master gladly.”
“Mercia, hear me! Thou shalt not die! I cannot let thee go! I love you so! I love you so!”
“Thou hast told me so before, and wouldst have slain thy soul and mine.”
“I grant it. I did not know. I was blind! Now I see my love for thee is love indeed. The brute is dead in me, the man is living. Thy purity that I would have smirched hath cleansed me. Live, Mercia! Live and be my wife!”
“Thy wife? Thy wife? Oh, Marcus, hear me. This love I speak of came, I know not whence, nor how, then; now I know it came from Him who gave me life. I receive it joyfully because He gave it. Think you He gave it to tempt me to betray Him? Nay, Marcus, He gave it to me to uphold and strengthen me. I will be true to Him!”