Priest-like! the renegade replied, and shook His head in scorn. What is not in the craft Is error, and for error there shall be No mercy found in Him whom yet ye name The Merciful! Now God forbid, rejoin’d The fallen King, that one who stands in need Of mercy for his sins should argue thus Of error! Thou hast said that thou and I, Thou dying in name a Musselman, and I A servant of the Cross, may meet in Heaven. Time was when in our fathers’ ways we walk’d Regardlessly alike; faith being to each, ... For so far thou hast reason’d rightly, ... like Our country’s fashion and our mother-tongue, Of mere inheritance, ... no thing of choice In judgement fix’d, nor rooted in the heart. Me have the arrows of calamity Sore stricken; sinking underneath the weight Of sorrow, yet more heavily oppress’d Beneath the burthen of my sins, I turn’d In that dread hour to Him who from the Cross Calls to the heavy-laden. There I found Relief and comfort; there I have my hope, My strength and my salvation; there, the grave Ready beneath my feet, and Heaven in view I to the King of Terrors say, Come, Death, ... Come quickly! Thou too wert a stricken deer, Julian, ... God pardon the unhappy hand That wounded thee!... but whither didst thou go For healing? Thou hast turn’d away from Him, Who saith, Forgive as ye would be forgiven And that the Moorish sword might do thy work, Received the creed of Mecca: with what fruit For Spain, let tell her cities sack’d, her sons Slaughter’d, her daughters than thine own dear child More foully wrong’d, more wretched! For thyself, Thou hast had thy fill of vengeance, and perhaps The cup was sweet: but it hath left behind A bitter relish! Gladly would thy soul Forget the past; as little canst thou bear To send into futurity thy thoughts: And for this Now, what is it, Count, but fear.... However bravely thou may’st bear thy front, ... Danger, remorse, and stinging obloquy? One only hope, one only remedy, One only refuge yet remains.... My life Is at thy mercy, Count! Call, if thou wilt, Thy men, and to the Moors deliver me! Or strike thyself! Death were from any hand A welcome gift; from thine, and in this cause, A boon indeed! My latest words on earth Should tell thee that all sins may be effaced, Bid thee repent, have faith, and be forgiven! Strike, Julian, if thou wilt, and send my soul To intercede for thine, that we may meet, Thou and thy child and I, beyond the grave.