’In what?’ ’In this propaganda to govern men by love.’ ’Thou playest, a child, with the cross-bow.’ ’I know it. I have been warned; direct thou my hand.’ ’I!’ exclaimed the Fool once more in a startled cry. And suddenly, wonder of wonders! he was grovelling at the other’s knees, pawing them, weeping and moaning, hiding his face in the grass. ’What saint is this?’ he cried, ’what saint that claims the Fool to his guide?’ ’Alas!’ said the boy, ’no saint, but a child of the human God.’ ’And He mated with Folly,’ cried Cicada, ’and Folly is to direct the bolt!’ He sat up, beating his brow in an ecstasy, then all in a moment forbore, and was as calm as death. ’So be it,’ he said. ’Be thou the divine fool, and I thy mother.’ With a quick movement Bembo caught the Fool’s cheeks between his palms. ’Ay, mother,’ said he, with a little choking laugh, ’but see that thy hand on mine be steady, lest the quarrel fly wide or rebound upon ourselves.’ It was the true mark indeed to which the cunning rascal had all this time been sighting his bow. He watched anxiously now for the tokens of a hit. The Fool sat very still awhile. ’Speak clearer,’ he muttered; then of a sudden: ’What wouldst ask of me?’ ’Ah! dear,’ sighed Bembo; ’only that thou wouldst justify thyself of this new compact of ours.’ ’I am clean—as thou readest love. Who but God would consort with Folly? The Fool is cursed to virginity.’ ’Cicada, dear, but there is no Chastity without Temperance.’ The Fool tore himself away, and slunk crouching back upon the grass. ’I renounce thy God!’ he chattered hoarsely, ’that would have me false to my love, my mistress, my one friend! Who has borne me through these passes, stood by me in pain and madness, dulled the bitter tooth of shame while it tore my entrails? Cure wantonness in women, gluttony in wolves, before you ask me to be dastard to my dear.’ ’Alas!’ cried Bembo, ’then am I lost indeed!’ A long pause followed, till in a moment the Fool had flung himself once more upon his face. ’Lay not this thing on me,’ he cried, clutching at the grass; ’lay it not! It is to tear my last hope by the roots, to banish me from the kingdom of dreams, to bury me in the everlasting ice! I will follow thee in all else, humbly and adoringly; I will try to vindicate this love which has stooped from heaven to a clown; I will perish in thy service—only waste not my paradise in the moment of its realisation.’ Bembo stooped, kneeling, and laid one hand softly on his shoulder. ’Poor Cicada,’ he said, ’poor Cicada! Alas! I am a child where I had hoped a man, and my head sinks beneath the waters. Tired am I, and fain to go rest my head in a lap that erst invited me. Return thou to thy bottle, as I to my love.’ The Fool, trailing himself up on his knees, caught his hands in a wild, convulsive clutch.