“Why, their ashes were cast to the wind.”
“Ay. But the true end of thy comedy is this. The parliament of Dijon hath since sifted the matter, and found they were no sorcerers, but good and peaceful citizens; and but last week did order masses to be said for their souls, and expiatory farces and mysteries to be played for them in seven towns of Burgundy; all which will not of those cinders make men and women again. Now 'tis our custom in this land, when we have slain the innocent by hearkening false knaves like thee, not to blame our credulous ears, but the false tongue that gulled them. Therefore bethink thee that, at a word from me to my lord bishop, thou wilt smell burning pine nearer than e'er knave smelt it and lived, and wilt travel on a smoky cloud to him whose heart thou bearest (for the word devil in the Latin it meaneth 'false accuser'), and whose livery thou wearest.”
And the cure pointed at Mangis with his staff.
“That is true i'fegs,” said the alderman, “for red and black be the foul fiendys colours.”
By this time the white sorcerer's cheek was as colourless as his dress was fiery. Indeed the contrast amounted to pictorial. He stammered out, “I respect Holy Church and her will; he shall fire the churchyard, and all in it, for me: I do withdraw the plaint.”
“Then withdraw thyself,” said the vice-bailiff.
The moment he was gone the cure took the conversational tone, and told the alderman courteously that the accused had received the chemical substance from Holy Church, and had restored it her, by giving it all to him.
“Then 'tis in good hands,” was the reply; “young man, you are free. Let me have your reverence's prayers.”
“Doubt it not! Humph! Vice-baillie, the town owes me four silver franks, this three months and more.”
“They shall be paid, cure, ay, ere the week be out.”