“See, my son,” said he, “Heaven hath foreseen our several needs, and given us the means to satisfy them: let us change books; and, my dear son, I will give thee my poor prayers and welcome, not sell them thee. I love not religious bargains.”
The islander was delighted. “So shall I learn the Italian tongue without risk to my eternal weal, Near is my purse, but nearer is my soul.”
He forced money on Clement. In vain the friar told him it was contrary to his vow to carry more of that than was barely necessary.
“Lay it out for the good of the Church and of my soul,” said the islander. “I ask you not to keep it, but take it you must and shall.” And he grasped Clement's hand warmly again; and Clement kissed him on the brow, and blessed him, and they went each his way.
About a mile from where they parted, Clement found two tired wayfarers lying in the deep shade of a great chestnut-tree, one of a thick grove the road skirted. Near the men was a little cart, and in it a printing-press, rude and clumsy as a vine-press, A jaded mule was harnessed to the cart.
And so Clement stood face to face with his old enemy.
And as he eyed it, and the honest, blue-eyed faces of the wearied craftsmen, he looked back as on a dream at the bitterness he had once felt towards this machine. He looked kindly down on them, and said softly—
“Sweynheim!”
The men started to their feet.
“Pannartz!”