“We have not yet done with this one. Bethink thee, the Church is not to be trifled with.”
“Alas! am I in a condition to trifle with her now? Avarice? Avarice?”
He looked puzzled and innocent.
“Hast thou ever robbed the fatherless?” inquired the friar.
“Me? robbed the fatherless?” gasped Ghysbrecht; “not that I mind.”
“Once more, my son, I am forced to tell thee thou art trifling with the Church. Miserable man! another evasion, and I leave thee, and fiends will straightway gather round thy bed, and tear thee down to the bottomless pit.”
“Oh, leave me not! leave me not!” shrieked the terrified old man. “The Church knows all. I must have robbed the fatherless. I will confess. Who shall I begin with? My memory for names is shaken.”
The defence was skilful, but in this case failed.
“Hast thou forgotten Floris Brandt?” said Clement stonily.
The sick man reared himself in bed in a pitiable state of terror. “How knew you that?” said he.