"Master, how shall my death profit thee?"
"The world shall be the better, and thy soul know less of sin, mayhap."
"Master," said Black Roger, stooping to wipe sweat from his face with fettered hands, "I have store of money set by—"
But Beltane laughed with pallid lips, and, pulling upon the rope, dragged Black Roger, choking, to his feet.
"Master," he gasped, "show a little mercy—"
"Hast ever shown mercy to any man—speak me true!"
"Alack!—no, master! And yet—"
"How then shall ye expect mercy? Thou hast burnt and hanged and ravished the defenceless, so now shall be an end of it for thee, yet—O mark me this, thy name shall live on accursed in memory long after thou'rt but poor dust."
"Aye, there be many alive to curse Black Roger living, and many dead to curse me when I'm dead; poor Roger's soul shall find small mercy hereafter, methinks—ha, I never thought on this!"
"Thou had'st a mother—"