’Ask it only, sweet.’ His chest still heaved spasmodically to the catching of his breath. ’It is,’ said the boy steadily, ’that thou wouldst give me, thy conscience’s delegate, a last justification by the sacraments.’ The Duke smiled faintly, and nodded, and murmured: ’I will confess ere midnight, and, fasting, receive the Holy Communion before I go to-morrow. Does it please thee? Come, then.’ He re-entered his cabinet, reeling a little, and sat himself down, as if exhausted, by the table. ’Bernardo,’ he said weakly, half apologetically, ’I am overwrought: there is wine in that jug: I prithee give it me to drink.’ The boy, unhesitating, handed him the flagon. ’It is the symbol of joy redeemed,’ he said. ’Put thy lips to the chalice, Galeazzo, and take what thy soul needest—no more.’ The Duke lifted the cup shakily, stumbled at its brim, steadied himself, and sipped. His eyes dilated and grew wolfish—’I am vindicated,’ he stuttered: ’O sweet little saint!’—and he drank greedily, ecstatically, and, smacking his lips, put down the vessel. He was himself again from that draught. ’Bernardo,’ he said, in a reassured, half-maudlin confidence, ’canst thou read the stars?’ ’Nay,’ said the other gravely, ’they are the Sibyls’ books.’ ’True. Yet some essay.’ ’Ay: then flies a comet, cancelling all their sums.’ ’An impious vanity, is it not?’ ’Truly, I think so.’ ’And deserving of the last chastisement.’ ’Poor fools, they make their own.’ ’What?’ ’Why, taking colds instead of rest—cramps, chills, and agues—immense pains, and all for nothing; the dead moon for the living sun; nursing all day that they may starve by night. God gave us level eyes. The star’s best resting place for them is on a hill. We need no more knowledge than to read beauty through the wise lens Nature hath proportioned us. Not God Himself can foretell a future.’ ’Not God?’ ’No, for there is no Future, nor ever will be. The Past but eternally prolongs itself to the Present. Heaven or hell is the road we tread, and must retrace when we come to the brink of the abyss where Time drops sheer into nothingness. Joy or woe, then, to him the returning wanderer, according as he hath provisioned his way. So shall he starve, or travel in content, or meet with weary retributions. O, in providence, hold thy hand, thinking on this, whenever thy hand is tempted!’ Galeazzo was amazed, discomfited. This unorthodoxy was the last to accommodate itself to his principles of conduct. The Future to him was always an unmortgaged reversion, sufficient to pay off all debts to conscience and leave a handsome residue for income. He could only exclaim, again, like one aghast: ’_No Future_?’