r just lift what you want. Have
sense, man; you can't kidnap a bishop like you'd kidnap a woman.

"Well, I don't see why not," says Matthew. "It would be easier, too,
because a woman will scratch like a wildcat. But if you're set against
it, I won't do it," he says. "Well, then, how about young Marco?"

"My sound man Matthew! My bully fellow! Sure you were never at a loss
yet! Young Marco it is; sure, 'tis the elegant idea. There's not a
man born of woman better for the job."

Now, all the Christian world had gone religious, and young Marco was no
exception; for't is not only the old that are religious. The young are,
too; but there's a difference. The religion of old men is reason and
translation; the religion of the young is just a burning cloud. The
Tragedy of the Bitter Tree is not a symbol to them, but a reality, and
their tears are not of the spirit, but of the body, too.

And there are no half-way houses, no compromises, in a young man's
creed. It's swallow all, or be damned to you. It's believe or be lost.

And thinking over the little girl in the Chinese garden, there had come
into Marco's heart, a thought past enduring. If little Golden Bells
did not believe, then little Golden Bells was lost. She might have
everything in this world, in this life, an emperor for a father, kings
for suitors, a great poet for a minstrel, a wizard for an entertainer;
but once the little blue shadow left her body, she was lost forever.
And the sight came to him of little Golden Bells going down the dim and
lonely alleys of death, and weeping, weeping, weeping... Her eyes
would be shot with panic, and the little mouth twisted, and the little
flowery hands twitching at each other. And it would be cold there for
her who was so warm, and it would be dark there for her who loved
light, and the Golden Bells of her voice would be lost in the whistling
and clanging of the stars as they swung by in their orbits. He to be
in the great delight of paradise, and she to be in the blue-gray maze
between the worlds--what tragedy!

Kings might bring her presents, a husband might bring her happiness;
but if he could only bring her salvation! If he could only tell her of
the Bitter Tree!

The body, when you came to think of it, mattered little. All the
beauty in the world could not endure more than its appointed span.
Helen was dust now, and Deirdre nothing. What had become of the beauty
of Semiramis, Alexander's darling; a