better hand him his poison in a goblet or smear it for him upon his robe or his saddlebow. Ask me rather would I suffer others to rob me or, if they did, would I call down upon them what I believe is called the chastisement of the secular arm?—
—And would you?—
—I think—Stephen said—it would pain me as much to do so as to be robbed.—
—I see—Cranly said.
He produced his match and began to clean the crevice between two teeth. Then he said carelessly:
—Tell me, for example, would you deflower a virgin?—
—Excuse me—Stephen said politely—is that not the ambition of most young gentlemen?—
—What then is your point of view?—Cranly asked.
His last phrase, sour smelling as the smoke of charcoal and disheartening, excited Stephen's brain, over which its fumes seemed to brood.
—Look here, Cranly—he said.—You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use, silence, exile and cunning.—
Cranly seized his arm and steered him round so as to lead him back towards Leeson Park. He laughed almost slyly and pressed Stephen's arm with an elder's affection.
—Cunning indeed!—he said.—Is it you? You poor poet, you!—
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