“I mean that he shall pay me every farthing that he owes,” said Delecresse through his clenched teeth. “I cannot have it in gold coins, perhaps. It will suit me as well in drops of blood,—either from his veins or from his heart.”
“Delecresse, thou shalt not touch the Damsel Margaret, if that be the meaning of those terrible words.”
“I am not going to touch her,” replied Delecresse, scornfully, “even with the tongs he took to my cap. I would not touch one of the vile insects for all the gold at Norwich!”
“But what dost thou mean?”
“Hold thou thy peace. I was a fool to tell thee.”
“What art thou going to do?” persisted Belasez.
“What thou wilt hear when it is done,” said Delecresse, walking away.
He left poor Belasez in grief and terror. Some misery, of what sort she could not even guess, was impending over her poor friend Margaret. How was it possible to warn her?—and of what was she to be warned?
A few minutes were spent in reflection, and then Belasez’s work was hastily folded, and she went in search of her father. Abraham listened with a perplexed and annoyed face.
“That boy always lets his hands go before his head! But what can I do, daughter? In good sooth, I would not willingly see any injury done to the Christians that have been so kind to thee. Where is Cress?”