“Hang me?” shrieked the wretched old Balaam; and burst into abject howls for mercy.
“Take the dark monk, Yeo, and hang him too. Lucy Passmore, do you know that fellow also?”
“No, sir,” said Lucy.
“Lucky for you, Fray Gerundio,” said Will Cary; while the good friar hid his face in his hands, and burst into tears. Lucky it was for him, indeed; for he had been a pitying spectator of the tragedy. “Ah!” thought he, “if life in this mad and sinful world be a reward, perhaps this escape is vouchsafed to me for having pleaded the cause of the poor Indian!”
But the bishop shrieked on.
“Oh! not yet. An hour, only an hour! I am not fit to die.”
“That is no concern of mine,” said Amyas. “I only know that you are not fit to live.”
“Let us at least make our peace with God,” said the dark monk.
“Hound! if your saints can really smuggle you up the back-stairs to heaven, they will do it without five minutes' more coaxing and flattering.”
Fray Gerundio and the condemned man alike stopped their ears at the blasphemy.