Certain of the rough men about the walls laughed at the retort. They loved courage and an insolent spirit even though their swords were to quench the same. The Bishop heightened his beneficent pity, towering from his pedestal of piety with the superb and unconscious egotism of the cleric.
“My son,” he said, “will you obey our Father the Pope?”
“I obey no Pope,” came the echo.
“Will you revere the Sacraments?”
“I claim the wine for all.”
“Blasphemy, my son. Should the Holy Blood touch your tainted lips? I trow not. As for confession and the remittance of sins——”
“God defend us from such lying ordinances.”
“Man——”
“None can remit sins save God.”
Bishop Jocelyn smiled like a Stephen, lifted up his face to the reeking roof, laid his hand on the silver bell.