the spirit. Was it a book that made Saul a seer? Was it not a flood of light that enveloped him, a vision, a voice?
Basil.
Do you forget the vision and the voice which that Agathon of Makellon?
Julian.
An enigmatic message; an oracle I cannot interpret. Was I the chosen one? The "heir to the empire," it said. And what empire? That matter is beset with a thousand uncertainties. Only this I know: Athens is not the lion's den. But where, where? Oh, I grope like Saul in the darkness. If Christ would have aught of me, he must speak plainly. Let me touch the nail-wound Basil. And yet it is written Julian. [With a gesture of impatience.] I know all that is written. This "it is written" is not the living truth. Do you not feel disgust and nausea, as on board ship in a windless swell, heaving to and fro between life, and written doctrine, and heathen wisdom and beauty? There must come a new revelation. Or a revelation of something new. It must come, I say;—the time is ripe.—Ah, a revelation! Oh, Basil, could your prayers call down that upon me! A martyr's death, if need be! A martyr's death—ah, it makes me dizzy with its sweetness the crown of thorns on my brow! [He clasps his head with both hands,
