But for slaying I need something different from this copying style.
* * * * *
Thus far had I written by Good Friday.
For a long while could I not contrive to write further. For the hatred, jealousy, and mistrust of Aaron and his hangers-on--there are many of his Italian countrymen come with him from Rumaberg--grow constantly greater. He has forbidden me to write by night.
Only by day, and in the library, no longer in my cell, may I write. And the transcript of Lactantius I am to deliver to him on the appointed parchment by Whitsuntide, on pain of seven days' fasting.
My resentment increases against this priestly tyranny.
Only rarely, and by stealth, can I get at these pages. Also I can only with great difficulty reach my dear father's hill. They track my lonely wanderings.
It will soon come to open war. At any rate I will provide myself with a sure weapon.
* * * * *
With difficulty did I, yesterday evening, in the sleeve of my frock, bring my dear father's hammer into the monastery. I have hidden it in the outer court, but where--that I do not trust even to these pages. I think much over the question of my dear father, and I believe that soon I shall find the truth.