“We are waiting,” said Serge slowly, wondering whether or not it would not be best just to ignore this madman.
“For our ship,” added his partner.
“We were to sail at dawn…”
“…but the fog.”
“Yes, the fog.”
“Perhaps tomorrow?”
The stranger’s voice rose: “What ship?” he cried.
“Our Lady of Roses.”
Cold, sad laughter echoed in the fog.
“And you,” said the stranger, “are her thorns, I take it. For a rose, I had to grasp the thorns. Smell that, good gentlemen: through the curse, there is a sweetness, a blessing. Let our hearts be pierced; here comes joy.”
Tale Told 