"You verge on blasphemy," he said.
"There can be no blasphemy where there is no belief."
"You are over subtle, my friend."
"Nay, sire, I have come by that godliness of mind when man discovers his own godhead. Let your soul soar, I say, let it beat its wings into the blue of life. Hence with superstition. Shall I subordinate my mind to the prosings of a mad charlatan such as Saul of Tarsus? Shall I, like each rat in this mortal drain, believe that some god cares when I have gout in my toe, or when I am tempted to bow to Venus?"
The man on the hassock grimaced, and eyed the friar much as though he had stumbled on some being from the underworld. He was a mystic for all his manhood.
"God pity your creed," he said.
"God, the inflated mortal----"
"Enough."
"This man god of yours who tosses the stars like so many lemons."
"Enough, sir friar."