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

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

To see evil and call it good, mocks God. Worse, it makes goodness meaningless. A word without meaning is an abomination, for when the word passes beyond understanding the very thing the word stands for passes out of the world and cannot be recalled.

Alea iacta est. The die has been cast.

See here, if a simple act of kindness or generosity, such as buying a loaf of bread for some poor working women, can mean that wholesale death and destruction will be avoided - why, a man would be a monster who had it in his power to alleviate all that suffering yet stood by and did nothing.

Yet, there was once a king worthy of that name. That king was Arthur. It is paramount disgrace of this evil generation that the name of that great king is no longer spoken aloud except in derision. Arthur! He was the fairest flower of our race, Cymry's most noble son, Lord of the Summer Realm, Pendragon of Britain. He wore God's favour like a purple robe. Hear then, if you will, the tale of a true king.

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