As Samson rode amid the railing mob that played around him on the road, his thoughts sped to Calvary and the crosses there. Should he flinch from what the Christ had suffered, and from what the martyrs had rejoiced to bear? The strain of heroism deepened in his soul, and a divine patience purged out wrath. It was the fate of prophets to seal with their blood the truths they expounded to mankind.
Had he laboured for nothing? No, the seed had been sown, and, like a good husbandman, he could go to his rest. There were strong men who would take up the challenge, and seize the torch from his dying hand. He remembered Tristan, that youthful Titan, who would preach with the sword what he had preached with the tongue. The Duchess Blanche had breathed the true spirit, and there were scores of heralds in the Seven Streams. Samson was strengthened by such thoughts as these. He feared not death, since death was not the end; they could slay the body, but not the soul.
Samson was brought before Jocelyn’s tent, torn from his horse, dragged before the chair where the Bishop sat. Helmets, wave on wave, swayed on the hillside; a thousand faces dwindled into the gloom of the woods. One heavy hand had buffeted the Heretic’s mouth, yet he stood before Jocelyn with pale, firm face, blood on his lips, his eyes unwavering.
There was a peculiar lustre in Jocelyn’s eyes. His face was suffused; his hands quivered as they gripped the carved rails of the chair.
“So, blasphemer, you have fallen to us at last.”
A divine patience showed on Samson’s face, also the melancholy of a man who grieved but did not fear. Now and again his dark eyes kindled; he stood unmoved by the menacing faces that hemmed him round.
“Bishop,” he said, “boast not thyself blessed because thou hast conquered dullards with a lie.”
“That I have spoken the truth and served God. That I have not pandered to a greedy Church, nor cheated men by forged doctrines and by false decrees.”
A soldier sprang forward and spat in Samson’s face.
“Friend, your taunts are brave enough since I am bound. I kneel to no man, only to God in Heaven.”
A mocking wave of laughter spread from rank to rank, for the jest sped home. The rough faces craning towards the Bishop’s tent were suffused and contorted with a savage zest.