“Cress! what dost thou mean?”
“It is a pity that the innocent need suffer with the guilty,” answered Delecresse, contemptuously. “But it mostly turns out so in this world.”
Belasez grasped her brother’s wrists.
“Cress, thou hast no thought of revenging thyself on Sir Richard of Gloucester for that boyish trick he once played on thee?”
“I’ll be even with him, Belasez. No man—least of all a Christian dog—shall insult me with impunity.”
“O Cress, Cress! Thou must not do it. Hast thou forgotten that vengeance belongeth to the Holy One, to whom be glory? And for such a mere nothing as that!”
“Nothing! Dost thou call it nothing for a son of Abraham to be termed a Jew cur by one of those creeping things of Gentiles? Is not the day at hand when they shall be our ploughmen and vine-dressers?”
“Well, then,” answered Belasez, assuming a playfulness which she was far from feeling, “when Sir Richard is thy ploughman, thou canst knock his cap off.”
“Pish! They like high interest, these Christians. I’ll let them have it, the other way about.”
“Cress, what dost thou mean to do?”