"Oh, sure, they'd never listen to me," Matthew laughs -- "me that's
drank with them, and deludhered their women, and gambled until I
left them nothing but the sweat of their brows. I'd be a great one
to preach religion to them. Why, man, they'd laugh at me. But I
tell you what, Nicolas. There's a bishop in Negropont, and I know
where he lives, and I know his house and everything. What do you
say, Nicolas? We'll just throw a bag over his head and tie him on
a horse. Oh, sure, he'd give grand discourses to the Great Khan!"

"Have sense, Matthew; have sense. You're always too rough; always
ready to end an argument with a knife, or 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.