“I’d put a spell on him, a loathing of his office. I care not. Go thine own ways, for me.”
“Nay, good Spartacus, wise Spartacus—thou must help me here indeed.”
“I care not, I say. I say, strike at him openly, if you will, and see him bristle through all his hulking shadow like a boar.”
“I will not. I will have it your way.”
“Well, if you like, give me the warrant to dismiss him, and appoint this Léotade in his place—him or another; what concern is it to me? Only I could so take him with mine art, he’d greet this chance as of a release from bondage—construe it into his resignation offered and accepted—abandon his following, leaving it to die of an atrophy, like a body whose brain is withered.”
“If you could do this thing, and earn my lasting gratitude!—dispel that darkness, and be like Moses honoured with burnt-offerings. I’ll send thee on the warrant. In the meanwhile, take this in earnest of my debt to thee.”
He threw a purse upon the floor—it struck weightily—and turned and left the room with Mirobole. A minute later the door below had shut upon them.
Bonito, with a loud snigger, touched a spring in the wall which acted on the curtain of the alcove, folding it up and away; and, striding to the tripod, took some hidden powder from beneath it, which he cast into the pan. A glowing flame shot up immediately, lighting the whole place, and he called out in ecstasy: “Cassandra, ma belle prêtresse, ma petite!”
She came out from a little room hidden behind the further curtain, and stood up motionless between their inky folds.
“We have won!” he cried boisterously: “we are partners in this triumph! Ministers of Fate, what a triumph! Mine own nominee elected; the other deposed and disgraced. Savoy is ours: we will cross the Alps ere long. Rejoice with me, child! Thine enemy lies low—thou art avenged.”