Henge stared at him, his hand fondly fingering his sword.
“Ay, curse you!” he said, between his teeth; “you know too much, but so do I, Sir Wizard!”
“Only that which would cost you your head long before it harmed a hair of mine,” the little man replied calmly, while he rose and stirred the beverage in the kettle.
“What devil’s broth is that?” Henge cried, turning away in disgust; “it stinks like some filthy gruel brewed for death.”
“Nay,” said the wizard, smiling, “’tis not poison; thought you to see me boiled like Richard Rouse? When this is thoroughly compounded, the smell of it stealing in a man’s brain will make him forgetful for a space; ’twill be useful to you, and the cost is trifling for the purpose, a hundred guineas.”
Henge shuddered. “I have no use for it,” he said hoarsely, “while I have a sword or a knife. Keep your devil messes for your richer clients.”
Suddenly there was a deep boom, and the house shook, the windows rattled.
The wizard took from the table a wine-glass which stood filled, and raised it in the air.
“My Lady Anne, once Queen of England, your health!” he said, and drank it.
Henge watched him with a look of dread.