The poor wretch put out a hand, feeling.
'Where art thou? Have thy wounds healed so quickly? Mine are incurable.'
'What!' croaked Montano jeeringly, 'with such a salve to allay them! I heard of it—logic meet to an angel—to renew thine image through her yonder. Marry, sir! conception runs before the law. Hast chased thy likeness down and taken it to church? Mistress Lucia there would seem a sullen bride. Hath her popinjay come and gone again? Well, you must be content with the legitimising.'
The armourer writhed in answering.
'What think you? There has been none. Mock not our misery. Is it the concern of angels to see their sentences enforced?'
'No, but to be called angels. Heaven is not easy surfeited with adulation.'
'He was glorified in his judgment; and there, for us, the matter ended.'
'Not quite.'
The pedagogue bent his evil head to look again into that woful face.
'Lupo, my school is closed; alumnus loiters in the streets. Shall he come in here?'