“Look ye, monk or devil, whate’er ye be, I’m your man, when a good deed of cut-and-thrust is to be done, and the wretch is despatched with a blow. But as for this merry-making over the dead, I like it not. Blood o’ Mahound, not a whit of it! I can wet my sword in a man’s blood as nicely as your next man, but it likes me not to wet my tusks with the vile puddle, and grin while the red drops fall from my lips. No more o’ your death grins, monk, or—’s death!—we quarrel!”
“Ho—ho—ho! so the humor suits ye not, honest Balvardo. Dost know the depth of the sea, or the number of the millions slain by old Death? Then know the hate I bear my victim; then count the lives I would crush in my revenge, had he as many as the millions trampled under the feet of Death! Is’t not cause for merriment, good Balvardo?”
“Look ye, sir monk, thou hast ever been known as the prime tool of his grace,—’s life! I should mention no names,—and therefore do I resign my part in this night’s work to thy hands. When ’tis done, thou knowest—”
“Where shall I place the body?”
“Here!” cried the hoarse voice of the soldier, and the Ladye Annabel saw him rise; she beheld him striding across the matted floor, toward an obscure corner of the apartment; she beheld him as he placed his rough hand upon the dark robe flung over the rising object.
“Here let him rest,” he cried, raising the robe, “and rest forever!”
The Ladye Annabel beheld a sight that gathered the big drops of sweat thick as the death dew on her forehead. Her heart was swelled to bursting, and she turned away from the sight for a single moment, with the impulse of overpowering horror.
When she looked again, the black cloth was again resting on that object of terror, while Balvardo was advancing toward the monk with his usual heavy and measured stride.
“Hast aught to hold the wine, good Balvardo?”
“In yonder closet thou wilt find the wine. Here is—curse this cloak, how its folds tangle about my body!—here is the goblet.”