MONSEIGNEUR. Yea, assure thy future. Thou shalt be taught to read (_at which BEPPO shifts his feet uneasily_)—and, if God will, some day to write. Thou shalt learn history, statecraft, poetry; to dance, to ride. BEPPO (_defiantly_). I can do both already, to perfection. MONSEIGNEUR (_fretfully_). To perfection!—when I myself have seen thee, lumping about like a servitor. Best of all, thou shall be taught courtly behaviour; to consider others; to be just and merciful, to speak the truth. BEPPO (_shiftily_). I never lie. MONSEIGNEUR. I hope not, but I do not altogether believe it. Even I have lied—I!—who have been taught so much. BEPPO (_mutters_). There are certain things I do not call lies. MONSEIGNEUR. Thou seest, Bishop, how ignorant he is? Take him, Messire, and teach him, and one day—doubtless—he will be all I might have been⸺ BISHOP. Monseigneur! MONSEIGNEUR. If only they had not killed me, by teaching me so much. So many lessons; so little play! Promise me, Beppo, thou wilt always do thy best. BEPPO (_lightly_). I promise. MONSEIGNEUR (_fiercely_). Nay, not like that! Swear it! Or, by the Blood, I will come to thee at nightfall in thy bed—ride on thy throat—choke thee! BEPPO (_terrified_). Philippe! I swear! MONSEIGNEUR. Good Beppo! Kiss me! BEPPO (_tearfully_). Willingly! Beloved Philippe! (_And while the boys affectionately embrace, to hide his emotion, the good Bishop leaves them and disappears through the hangings out into the corridor. Then BEPPO kneels lovingly at his brother’s feet._) And now it is my turn. MONSEIGNEUR. To teach me? BEPPO. To cure thee, as I said I would. MONSEIGNEUR. And how? BEPPO. Out there, in the sunshine. It has cured the thrushes, and why not thee? MONSEIGNEUR (_languidly_). Ah! Out there? BEPPO. It is the place I always go to, when I myself am feeling wretchedly. MONSEIGNEUR. Wretchedly? Thou? BEPPO. Sometimes. MONSEIGNEUR (_tenderly_). Hungry? BEPPO. Hunger is nothing. But to be restless, dissatisfied; not often, but still sometimes. To feel oneself a beggar, an outcast, friendless; to be neither of the palace nor the hovel, yet to know oneself a part of each. In a word, Philippe, to feel oneself nothing; just the foam on the surface of the river, the bubble that breaks and vanishes even before the broad stream is aware of its existence. MONSEIGNEUR. Thou hast such feelings? Thou? BEPPO. Sometimes. But when they come I take them where they always pass, and I am cured—as I will cure thee. MONSEIGNEUR (_smiles_). And where is it?—this wonderful healing-place of thine. BEPPO. Out there—not far—on the warm slope below the Black Dog bastion. Thou knowest it; beneath the great lilac bush, where this morning I found for thee the baby thrushes. MONSEIGNEUR (_dreamily_). I know it well. Thence one can see for many, many leagues.