“‘Pope’s a rogue, Pope’s a rogue.’ But, then, I am a rogue, too. Don’t you think, Gart, that I am also something of a rogue? One moment, children, I am with you.”
There is some crowding in the doorway. The abbot follows the last man with his eyes and roars angrily:
“Eh, you, Haggart, murderer! What are you smiling at? You have no right to despise them like that. They are my children. They have worked—have you seen their hands, their backs? If you haven’t noticed that, you are a fool! They are tired. They want to rest. Let them rest, even at the cost of the blood of the one you killed. I’ll give them each a little, and the rest I will throw out into the sea. Do you hear, Haggart?”
“I hear, priest.”
The abbot exclaims, raising his arms:
“O Lord! Why have you made a heart that can have pity on both the murdered and the murderer! Gart, go home. Take him home, Mariet, and wash his hands!”
“To whom do you lie, priest?” asks Haggart, slowly. “To God or to the devil? To yourself or to the people? Or to everybody?”
He laughs bitterly.
“Eh, Gart! You are drunk with blood.”
“And with what are you drunk?”