“An effigy of the heretic, with a hole through his heart.”
“Yes, I see it is a tester of the Béarn king’s, and here is a hole.”
“A blow with a dagger. Death to the heretic. He who does it is sure of Paradise.”
“He is not yet drunk enough;” so thought Chicot; and he filled his glass again.
“To the mass!” cried Gorenflot, drinking it off.
Chicot remembered the porter looking at the hands of the monks, and said—
“Then, if you show this to the porter——”
“I enter.”
“Without difficulty?”
“As this wine into my stomach.” And the monk absorbed a new dose.