There was a peculiar lustre in Jocelyn’s eyes. His face was suffused; his hands quivered as they gripped the carved rails of the chair.
“So, blasphemer, you have fallen to us at last.”
A divine patience showed on Samson’s face, also the melancholy of a man who grieved but did not fear. Now and again his dark eyes kindled; he stood unmoved by the menacing faces that hemmed him round.
“Bishop,” he said, “boast not thyself blessed because thou hast conquered dullards with a lie.”
“Infidel, what hast thou to plead?”
“That I have spoken the truth and served God. That I have not pandered to a greedy Church, nor cheated men by forged doctrines and by false decrees.”
A soldier sprang forward and spat in Samson’s face.
“Kneel, dog, to the Bishop.”
The Heretic turned to him with a smile.
“Friend, your taunts are brave enough since I am bound. I kneel to no man, only to God in Heaven.”