“And who will this man be, O Iosa mac Dhe?” I whispered.
“Answer the little child,” said Iosa, and his voice was sad.
“I am the Weaver of Glory”—he began, but Iosa looked at him, and he said no more.
“Art, little lad,” said the Prince of Peace, “he is the one who betrayeth me for ever. He is Judas, the Weaver of Fear.”
And at that the sorrowful shadow-eyed man that was the twelfth took up the three shuttles that were before him.
“And what are these, O Judas?” I cried eagerly, for I saw that they were black.
When he answered not one of the Twelve leaned forward and looked at him. It was the Weaver of Death who did this thing.
“The three shuttles of Judas the Fear-Weaver, O little Art,” said the Weaver of Death, “are called Mystery, and Despair, and the Grave.”
And with that Judas rose and left the room. But the shape that he had woven went forth with him as his shadow: and each fared out into the dim world, and the Shadow entered into the minds and into the hearts of men, and betrayed Iosa that was the Prince of Peace.