Unbelievers enjoy the security of their unbelief; there is great confidence in ignorance.

Time is the central mystery of our existence. It confines and defines us in many ways.

I will weep no more for the lost, asleep in their water graves.

Arthur’s fingers tighten on the silver-braided hilt: see how naturally it fits his hand! He pulls. The Sword of Britain slides from its stone sheath. The ease with which this is accomplished shines in the wonder in Arthur’s eyes. He truly cannot believe what he has done. Nor can he comprehend what it means.

They are young and life has no limits. Nothing is impossible, nothing beyond doing or knowing. The world is theirs and everything in it.

It had long been an ambition to find the line of force that might lead to the Holy Land in the time of Christ.

That Arthur has not always existed seems odd to me. Like the wind on the moors and the wild winter stars, surely he has always lived . . . and always will.