“It should be the sword.”
“Mine yet waits white for blood.”
Gorlois, implacable, grim as a werewolf, threw open the door of a closet and led Uther within the narrow compass of its walls. It was a little oratory, dim and fantastic, with lamps hanging from the roof, and black curtains over the narrow casement. Two waxen candles burnt with steady, windless flames upon the altar, and beneath their light glimmered a great sword, naked, and a cup half filled with purple wine. Gorlois took up the sword and touched it with his lips.
“For the man,” he said.
Then he set the sword down beneath its candle and touched the goblet with his fingers; his black eyes glittered.
“For the woman, sire.”
“And the candles?”
“I burn them till I have crushed the life out of two souls; then I can pinch the wicks between my fingers, and snuff them out in smoke.”