"God be with thee, my son! The Lord, it seems, denies me His precious
Blood--and yet--let me try once more."

This time he succeeded in swallowing the wine and a few crumbs of bread;
and the bishop Ptolimus, a gentle old man of a beautiful and dignified
presence, spoke comfort to him, and asked him whether he felt that he was
dying penitent and in perfect faith in the mercy of his Lord and Saviour,
and whether he repented of his sins and forgave his enemies.

The sick man bowed his head with an effort and murmured:

"Even the Melchites who murdered my sons--and even the head of our
Church, the Patriarch, who was only too glad to leave it to me to achieve
things which he scrupled to do himself. That--that--But you, Ptolimus--
a wise and worthy servant of the Lord--tell me to the best of your
convictions: May I die in the belief that it was not a sin to conclude a
peace with the Arab conquerors of the Greeks?--May I, even at this hour,
think of the Melchites as heretics?"

The prelate drew his still upright figure to its full height, and his
mild features assumed a determined--nay a stern expression as he
exclaimed:

"You know the, decision pronounced by the Synod of Ephesus--the words
which should be graven on the heart of every true Jacobite as on marble
and brass 'May all who divide the nature of Christ--and this is what the
Melchites do--be divided with the sword, be hewn in pieces and be burnt
alive!'--No Head of our Church has ever hurled such a curse at the
Moslems who adore the One God!"