“Grandfather, what is that in your hand?”
The old man rose, groaning as he straightened his back. He held by the handle a lipped vessel, half-full of a sluggish ruby liquid.
“You should know,” he said. “It is what your loved oranges grow rich and fat on.”
“Not blood?”
“Bullocks’ blood.”
Isabella, with an exclamation of horror, shrunk back.
“Those are not oranges, my friend,” said Tiretta.
He pointed to a row of little shrubs or herbs, set in earthenware jars against a sunny wall. They were green and bushy, and the vessels were of many colours, fancifully designed and decorated.
“They are sweet basil, or basil-thyme, master,” said Aquaviva—“a common stock, until enriched by good feeding. It is the way of the world all over. It is blood which makes the quality—meat-juice, and plenty of it. These are having their first weaning, and the result will show in a year, or maybe two or three. Simple enough in themselves, they will flower, when they do, fit to grace a lady’s bower. ’Tis said they flourish best on the blood of murdered men.”
“Come away, Fanchette,” said Isabella. But the maid lingered.