I held my breath; and he went on, in broken sentences—
“Come back—give me my glasses—where are you?—I believe all you say—What! will you give me up, and the Calendar unfinished?”
Then, as I still did not answer, “Holy saints! The little devil has hobbled me, and I shall be caught and martyred.”—A longish pause—“In manus tuas, Domine, com— I wonder if in Paradise—the scarce copper—h’m!”
He began to gnaw his knuckles, with a sort of pleased abstraction over the thought. It would never do. I came out of my hiding.
“Will you take me with you?” I repeated.
“O, it’s you?” he cried, with a start. “Where are my glasses?”
“In my hand.”
“Will you return them to me?”
“Will you let me go with you?”
“Scandalous!”