_Fest._ No, dear Aureole! No, no; I came to counsel faithfully. There are old rules, made long ere we were born. By which I judge you. I, so fallible, So infinitely low beside your mighty Majestic spirit!--even I can see You own some higher law than ours which call Sin, what is no sin--weakness, what is strength. But I have only these, such as they are, To guide me; and I blame you where they bid, Only so long as blaming promises To win peace for your soul: the more, that sorrow Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me So that I faint not under my distress. But wherefore should I scruple to avow In spite of all, as brother judging brother, Your fate is most inexplicable to me? And should you perish without recompense And satisfaction yet--too hastily I have relied on love: you may have sinned, But you have loved. As a mere human matter-- As I would have God deal with fragile men In the end--I say that you will triumph yet! _Par._ Have you felt sorrow, Festus?--'t is because You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours! Well thought on: never let her know this last Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared Insult me--me she loved:--so, grieve her not! _Fest._ Your ill success can little grieve her now. _Par._ Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze! _Fest._ Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus! Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof-- I cannot bear those eyes. _Par._ Nay, really dead? _Fest._ 'T is scarce a month. _Par._ Stone dead!--then you have laid her Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, I can reveal a secret which shall comfort Even you. I have no julep, as men think, To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. Know, then, you did not ill to trust your love To the cold earth: I have thought much of it. For I believe we do not wholly die. _Fest._ Aureole! _Par._ Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason For what I say: I think the soul can never Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see, Very unfit to put so strange a thought In an intelligible dress of words; But take it as my trust, she is not dead. _Fest._ But not on this account alone? you surely, --Aureole, you have believed this all along? _Par._ And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, While I am moved at Basel, and full of schemes For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, As though it mattered how the farce plays out, So it be quickly played. Away, away! Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize, Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats And leave a clear arena for the brave About to perish for your sport!--Behold! V. PARACELSUS ATTAINS