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«You’re a palm of god now,» Donatello said.

Ferdinand knew. He nodded.

Behind stood a crowd of his silent fellows. The hand of each was bleeding. And Donatello has already brought the bowl to his lips.

«Are you ready to take the mission entrusted to you?» the last question. It was no longer needed, but such was a tradition. While he will not officially agree, the rite will not be completed.

The golden edge of the bowl was so cold and unpleasant to the touch. He had to drink the blood of his companions and to hope that thus the power of the whole Order to unite in it by one, making it invincible. It was absurd, and yet Ferdinand said, as it was:

«I’m ready!»

And immediately he pierced the feeling that his favorite marble angel looks at him right from this altar, in front, from behind, from a height, from everywhere. It was also absurd, but the angel was not encouraged.

«A traitor!»

He began to be afraid of this word, but it sounded in the head, pronounced by the lips of the angel.

So the angel called him. Why? Because of the blood, which he had to drink? Ferdinand drank, trying not to feel the taste. It was too unpleasant.