On the eighth night he paused a little longer by her in the gloom.
"He dies there," he said, slowly resting his tranquil, musing gaze upon the bed of straw. "It is a pity. So little would save him still. A little wine, a little fruit, a little skill,—his soul's desire when his sense returns. So little—and he would live, and he would be great; and the secret sins of the Barabbas would scourge the nations, and the nations, out of very fear and very shame, would lift their voices loud and hail him prophet and seer."
Her strength was broken as she heard. She turned and flung herself in supplication at his feet.
"So little—so little; and you hold your hand!"
Sartorian smiled.
"Nay; you hold your silence, Folle-Farine."
She did not move; her upraised face spoke without words the passion of her prayer.
"Save him!—save him! So little, so you say; and the gods will not hear."
"The gods are all dead, Folle-Farine."
"Save him! You are as a god! Save him!"