Macias—Why are you silent? Tell me how he died.
(Andrew returns gloomily and lights his taper at the hunter's torch.)
Andrew—His soul was calm until it sniffed the gale
And saw the wild-fire grazing in the sky.
And then you should have seen him. When he heard
The roar of the wind and saw the lean moon
Rush through the clouds, tearing them with her horn,
Zooks, then he fluttered like a gull on a mast
When a big barque is poppling up and down
I' the foam. And all the while devils' grimy hands
Plucked at him through the dark.
(The hunter turns away mumbling to himself.) Eh? Mad? You're right.
An you'd a seen 'em you'd a said they're mad.
Macias—Where will I find the Abbot?
Andrew— Legions of them.
They'd seen me sponge him twice with a good shrift.
As soon as ever the third foul sin appeared,
They pounced him and pitched him down over the world
To where the big deep dashes up the sky
Spraying the stars of heaven. Down, down, down!
(He walks back in the court and stands listening.)
Hear it? Blood on the stones, fresh blood. (Calling.) Mother!
Macias—Chattering to himself. It must be he,
The ancient acholyte they told me of.
Gray hairs and staff—