In this instance it whetted an assassin's dagger for a poor forlorn wretch just meditating suicide.
CHAPTER LXV
It happened, two days after the scene I have endeavoured to describe, that Gerard, wandering through one of the meanest streets in Rome, was overtaken by a thunderstorm, and entered a low hostelry. He called for wine, and the rain continuing, soon drank himself into a half stupid condition, and dozed with his head on his hands and his hands upon the table.
In course of time the room began to fill and the noise of the rude guests to wake him.
Then it was he became conscious of two figures near him conversing in a low voice.
One was a pardoner. The other by his dress, clean but modest, might have passed for a decent tradesman; but the way he had slouched his hat over his brows, so as to hide all his face except his beard, showed he was one of those who shun the eye of honest men, and of the law. The pair were driving a bargain in the sin market. And by an arrangement not uncommon at that date, the crime to be forgiven was yet to be committed—under the celestial contract.
He of the slouched hat was complaining of the price pardons had reached. “If they go up any higher we poor fellows shall be shut out of heaven altogether.”
The pardoner denied the charge flatly. “Indulgences were never cheaper to good husbandmen.”
The other inquired, “Who were they?”