There was an indistinct commotion from the end of the hall, followed by the sharp sound of a key unlocking a door and someone groaning painfully as he was thrown into the cell like a bag of potatoes. The Inquisition's investigators did their work primarily at night. The main room for the investigation was in the basement; in spite of the thick walls, horrible screams could be heard periodically, weakening the last remains of will and resistance in the other prisoners waiting for their turn to be taken down there. As they moved off after closing the door with a bang, one of the guards muttered something to the other, making him laugh raucously. For a long time his burst of laughter echoed like thunder through the stone hallway.

"But you, of course, will not relent?" asked the voice from the darkness after the echo finally died out.

"Of course."

"What is the real reason for that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You certainly are not a simpleminded idealist who has gotten involved in all this because you don't understand how the world works, what forces set it in motion. On the contrary, everything you have done from the beginning seems to have been carefully planned. You have lit a fire that only you can put out. It takes great resourcefulness to turn the tables on such an experienced service as the Inquisition, to tie its hands, as you say. And it takes the courage of a fanatic that is always lacking in idealists at the crucial moment, the readiness to go all the way, no matter what the cost. You, naturally, shy away from the pain that awaits you at the stake, but you will go to your execution nonetheless just because that will harm the church the most. What is it that she has done to you?"

The prisoner started to get up into a sitting position on the hard bed, feeling a stab of pain go all the way down his stiff back. As he did so, a scene from his dream suddenly rose to the surface of his memory. It was very vivid, although fixed, like some sort of ugly picture: the twisted faces of the monks lustfully reaching for his tiny, helpless body.

"Isn't it still early for my last confession?"

"I'm not here to listen to your confession."

"Oh, yes, it almost slipped my mind. You are here to prevail upon me to change my mind. But if you truly believe what you just said, it must be clear to you that it's impossible."

"It is clear to me."

"Then why are you wasting your time?"

There was no immediate reply from the other side of the cell. A hand rose from his lap and reached for something that was lying unseen on the wooden bench. A moment later it returned to the flickering shaft of light from the torch in the hall. It was now holding a slender black cane with a carved white figure on the top.

"I have more than enough time." The voice seemed to become muffled, more distant.

"But I don't. My hours are numbered."

"That's right. Soon they will come to take you to the stake, but before that you will be given one last chance to accept the church's offer. But, as we know, you will refuse. Although it makes no difference, really."

"It does make a difference. If I accept, everything I did will have been in vain."

"No, it won't. The damage was done the moment you announced your discovery, and it cannot be undone. The fluttering of the butterfly's wings should have been prevented before it initiated the storm. Even if the church made a sincere ally out of you, it would only slow down the harmful effects."

"Do you really think that this is sufficient to make me change my mind? I expected you to think of something more convincing."

"I have no intention of dissuading you. But that is the way things stand nonetheless. Heresy has been sown on fertile ground. Neither the stake nor repentance will turn your students away. They will start to spread forbidden knowledge, to add to it. Once set in motion, this course cannot be stopped, even though the Inquisition will undertake everything to obstruct it. You have let the genie out of the bottle, and he can no longer return to it. The church will finally realize this inexorability, but it will be too late then."

The prisoner strained to make out the hidden face in the impenetrable obscurity, but without success, even though his pupils were completely dilated.

"Isn't it unbecoming for a man of God to have so little faith in the future of the church?"

"Why do you think I am a man of God?"