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act iii.]
caesar's apostasy.
117
Bathe thee in the fumes of wine, my pallid guest! Refresh thee. Feel, feel—it mounts aloft like the smoke of sacrifice.
The Voice.
The smoke of sacrifice does not always <g>mount</g>.
Julian.
Why does that scar redden on thy brow? Nay, nay,—draw not the hair over it; What is it?
The Voice.
The mark.
Julian.
H'm; no more of that. And what fruit has thy sin borne?
The Voice.
The most glorious.
Julian.
What callest thou the most glorious?
The Voice.
Life.
Julian.
And the ground of life?
The Voice.
Death.
Julian.
And of death?
The Voice.
[Losing itself as in a sigh.] Ah, <g>that</g> is the riddle!
