It was not natural to speak of Licorice by any other name.
“Don’t mention it, Belasez! She beat me with the broom, until Delecresse interfered and pulled her off. Then she spat at me, and cursed me in the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the twelve tribes of Israel. She threw dirt at my beard, child.”
The last expression, as Beatrice well knew, was an Oriental metaphor.
“Is she satisfied now?”
“Satisfied! What dost thou mean by satisfied? She gives me all the sitten (Note 1) porridge. That is not very satisfying, for one can’t eat much of it. I break my fast with Moss, when I can.”
Beatrice could not help laughing.
“My poor father! I wish I could just fly in every morning, to make the porridge for thee.”
“Blessed be the memory of the Twelve Patriarchs! Child, thou wouldst scarcely escape with whole bones. If Licorice hated Christians before, she hates them tenfold now.—Dost thou think, Belasez, that the Lady lacks anything to-day? I have one of the sweetest pieces of pale blue Cyprus that ever was woven, and some exquisite gold Damascene stuffs as well.”
“I am sure, Father, she will like to look at them, and I have little doubt she will buy.”
“How are matters going with thee, child? Has thy father got leave to abandon his vows?”