'You're here, a scribe,' murmured Uncle Lorne, looking upon Tom Wealdon.
'Aye, Sir, a scribe and a Pharisee, a Sadducee and a publican, and a priest, and a Levite,' said the functionary, with a wink at Lake. 'Thomas Wealdon, Sir; happy to see you, Sir, so well and strong, and likely to enlighten the religious world for many a day to come. It's a long time, Sir, since I had the honour of seeing you; and I'm always, of course, at your command.'
'Pshaw!' said Lake, angrily.
The Town Clerk pressed his arm with a significant side nod and a wink, which seemed to say, 'I understand him; can't you let me manage him?'
The old man did not seem to hear what they said; but his tall figure rose up, and he extended the fingers of his left hand close to the candle for a few seconds, and then held them up to his eyes, gazing on his finger-tips, with a horrified sort of scrutiny, as if he saw signs and portents gathered there, like Thomas Aquinas' angels at the needles' points, and then the same cadaverous grin broke out over his features.
'Mark Wylder is in an evil plight,' said he.
'Is he?' said Lake, with a sly scoff, though he seemed to me a good deal scared. 'We hear no complaints, however, and fancy he must be tolerably comfortable notwithstanding.'
'You know where he is,' said Uncle Lorne.
'Aye, in Italy; everyone knows that,' answered Lake.
'In Italy,' said the old man, reflectively, as if trying to gather up his ideas, 'Italy. Oh! yes, Vallombrosa—aye, Italy, I know it well.'