'Good Master Nature,' mocked one, 'hast ever a collop in thy pocket for a starved woodman?'
'See how he stumbles, missing his leading-strings!' cackled another.
A third knocked off his bonnet.
'Prophesy, who is he that smote thee!' he cried, and ducking, came up elsewhere.
'Ay, prophesy!' thundered a fourth voice; and a fist like a rammer crashed upon the assailant's face, spread-eagling it. The man went down in a welter. Bembo fled to Lanti's arms, feebly imprisoning them.
'Thou thing of bloody passions!' he shrieked. 'Wouldst thou so vindicate me?'
Carlo roared over his shoulder:—
'Help his prophecy, ye vermin, when he's ears to hear; and tell him I wait to carve them from his head.'
He bore Bembo with him from the hall, as he might carry a moth fluttering on his sleeve. Murmurs rose in his wake, seething and furious; but he heeded them not. In a deserted court beyond, he shook the pretty spoil from his arm, not roughly but with an air of madness, and stood breathing like a driven ox.
'What now?' he groaned at last—'what now?'