“I will take the packets,” he said, wetting his dry lips with his tongue; “I did but jest.”
The wizard regarded him uneasily; something in the sudden change of manner displeased him, yet he knew the man to be too deeply committed for retreat.
“You have a pleasant way of jesting,” he remarked dryly, “a gentle playfulness. What is your haste?”
Sir Barton had risen and gathered up the packets.
“The fumes of your vile drug intoxicate me,” Henge said curtly; “I must breathe in the open air or choke.”
The wizard smiled and gazed fondly at his kettle.
“’Tis useful stuff,” he replied, “most useful.”
Sir Barton took up his cloak and sword, eager to be off.
“Some day you will fall into your own caldron,” he remarked; “but I tell you, Sanders, that I will not be there too.”
The little man rubbed his hands, laughing wickedly.