"You see that lark? It soars there, and sings there. It is possible that a fowler may hide in the grasses; it is possible that it may be shot as it sings; it is possible that it may have the honor to die in agony, to grace a rich man's table. You see?"
She mused a moment; her brain was rapid in intuitive perception, but barren of all culture; it took her many moments to follow the filmy track of a metaphorical utterance.
But by degrees she saw his meaning, and the shadow settled over her face again.
"The 'possible,' then, is only—the worse?" she said slowly.
The old man smiled still grimly.
"Nay; our friends the priests say there is a 'possible' which will give—one day—the fowler who kills the lark the wings of the lark, and the lark's power to sing Laus Deo in heaven. I do not say—they do."
"The priests!" All the scorn of which her curved lips were capable curled on them, and a deep hate gathered in her eyes—a hate that was unfathomable and mute.
"Then there is no 'possible' for me," she said bitterly, "if so be that priests hold the gifts of it?"
Marcellin looked up at her from under his bushy white eyebrows; a glance fleet and keen as the gleam of blue steel.
"Yes, there is," he said curtly. "You are a woman-child, and have beauty: the devil will give you one."