The monk fell on his knees:—
'Now hear me, God!' he gabbled awry: 'Let not this man ever again know surcease from torment, in bed, at board, in his body, or in his mind. Let his lust consummate in frostbite; let the worm burrow in his entrails, and the maggot in his brain. May his drink be salt, and his meat bitter as aloes. May his short lease of wicked life be cancelled, and death seize him, and damnation wither in the moment of his supreme impenitence. Darken his vision, so that for evermore it shall see despair and the mockery of fruitless hope. Let him walk a self-conscious leper in the sunshine, and strive vainly to propitiate the loathing in eyes in which he sees himself reflected an abhorred and filthy ape. May the curse of Assisi——'
Galeazzo screamed him down:—
'Quote him not—beast—vile apostate from his teaching!'
For a moment the two battled in a war of screeching blasphemy: the next, the grate was flung into place, the light whisked and vanished, a door slammed, and the blackness of the cell closed once more upon the moaning heap in its midst.
Quaking and ashen, babbling oaths and prayers, Galeazzo flung back to his closet.
'Bring wine!' he shook out between his teeth to Jacopo.
When it came, he tasted, and flung it from him.
'Salt!' he shrieked. His fancy quite overcrowed his reason. 'O God, I am poisoned!'
He rose, staggering, and entered his oratory, and cast himself on his knees before the little shrine.