“Let them find it out then,” spoke Padraig in sudden heat. “We have had enough of war in our time. Let us kill this cockatrice in the egg.”
“These would pay some debts,”—Alan’s hard young North-country face grew stern. He was thinking of tales which Angelo had told him in his boyhood.
“God can pay debts without money,” said Brother Basil gently.
“We are not ready,” Guy averred. “We need time to train men and to let the land breathe. After that it may be safe to use the secret—not now.”
“That cat’s best in a sack,” David commented shrewdly.
“Padraig is right,” said Wilfrid. “We have had enough of war in our time. We will keep this monster prisoned.”
They came to an agreement. Padraig was to make copies in cipher of the formulæ. After ten years, or on his deathbed should he die within that time, each might give the master-words and the rules to some comrade who could be trusted. They were all to swear never to use their knowledge for gain, or ambition, or vanity, but for the good of their craft, the glory of God and the honor of the land.
“Before we destroy that which we have made,” said Brother Basil, “we will show you in part what it can do.”
Metals dissolved like wet salt. Wood and leather were bitten through as by gnawing rats. A fire was kindled on the old tower, and a cone-like swarm of giant wasps of fire went spluttering and boiling up into the darkness. The apples of Sodom were planted under a troublesome ledge of rock, and reduced it to rubble.
[“And there goes what would seat the King of England on the throne of the Cæsars,” quoth Tomaso.] The last wavering flare was dying into the night, and he stood with Ranulph and Padraig on the top of the tower, under the stars.