“Nay, dead men pay no ransom, and we will make his beer-swilling, beef-eating brother burghers pay a good sum for his fat body.
“Thou hast thy choice, mayor. Ransom or rope?”
“Seeing I must choose, ransom; but rate me not too high, I am a poor man.”
They laughed immoderately.
“We have borrowed a hint from the outlaws, and unless thy brethren pay for thee soon, we will send thy worthless body to them in installments, first one ear, then the other, and so on.”
“Our Lady help me!”
“Brother, be patient. Heaven will help us, since there is no help in man,” said Martin. “And now, Drogo, whom I knew so well of old, and in whom I see little change, what is thy charge against me?”
“A very serious one, brother Martin, and one I grieve to bring against such an eloquent preacher of the Gospel, but my conscience compels me.”
“Thy conscience!”
“Yes, I can afford to keep one as well as thou. Dost thou think thou art the only creature who has a soul to be saved?”