“Thou art Christopher Marlowe.”
Marlowe leaned back against the wall with his hands so tightly clenched that their nails almost entered his palms. The scowl grew deep on his face, but no words came from his lips. It seemed no occasion for speech, and action on his part was forestalled; for Bame had drawn his short sword.
“I am Richard Bame. You have undoubtedly heard of me as the uncle of Anne.”
“And as the swearer of false and vile charges against the man of whom you speak,” said Marlowe, his voice impetuously breaking forth.
“Against yourself,” interrupted Bame, “but not as a false accuser. Listen to me.”
“But why should I; and why have you drawn a weapon? You see that I am defenseless. You came in the character of a bearer of good tidings; why do you now assume a violent front? Is it not enough that I am the friend of the one from whom you come—your niece? Have I ever wronged you? Put down your sword! even though the time were opportune for murder, the sanctity of the place should stay your hand. Doth not its holiness appeal to thee?”
Bame began with the echo of the last word:
“You speak well, but to no purpose. You have rendered me no personal injury, but you have attacked not only my church, but all churches, all faith, all religions. No,” he continued, shaking his sword in his fervor as Marlowe was about to reply, “Let me go on. Nothing is sacred in thine eyes——”
“Cease,” exclaimed Marlowe, “You know little of what you speak. Blinded by a fanaticism, narrow, violent and perverted, you can see nothing good in aught that promotes pleasure and breaks the chrysalis of joy. You would tear down the playhouses, and on the spot where laughter has chased the gloom from the face of grief and apathy, and where new generations are being educated in the history of the past and in the polished manners of the higher classes, a school, wide, noble and elevating, you would erect houses for wailing and for the blind worship of an unknown God. And I, whom you deem the head and front of atheism, you wished burned at the stake, and now would take upon thyself what your religion deems an unpardonable crime, that of sending my soul unprepared before its Maker.”
“Maker!”, sneered Bame, “Maker, Thou hast denied the existence of the Trinity.”