They found the cure in his doublet repairing a wheelbarrow. Gerard told him all, and appealed piteously to him. “Just for using a little phosphorus in self-defence against cut-throats they are going to hang.”
It was lucky for our magician that he had already told his tale in full to the cure, for thus that shrewd personage had hold of the stick at the right end. The corporation held it by the ferule. His reverence looked exceedingly grave and said, “I must question you privately on this untoward business.” He took him into a private room and bade the officer stand outside and guard the door, and be ready to come if called. The big constable stood outside the door, quaking, and expecting to see the room fly away and leave a stink of brimstone. Instantly they were alone the cure unlocked his countenance and was himself again.
“Show me the trick on't,” said he, all curiosity.
“I cannot, sir, unless the room be darkened.”
The cure speedily closed out the light with a wooden shutter. “Now, then.”
“But on what shall I put it?” said Gerard. “Here is no dead face. 'Twas that made it look so dire.” The cure groped about the room. “Good; here is an image: 'tis my patron saint.”
“Heaven forbid! That were profanation.”
“Pshaw! 'twill rub off, will't not?”
“Ay, but it goes against me to take such liberty with a saint,” objected the sorcerer.
“Fiddlestick!” said the divine.