“What can church say to us? Where’s honesty? Here, Rob, here!”
“He is a tall, brown-gold man that was a goldsmith once. He can still make you lovely things in silver and gold.”
“So he becomes cheating alchemist and all his gold is lead and brass!”
“Much like thine own!” said a loud voice within Morgen Fay. She struck at it, would not have it, poured to-night, being to-night a slut, muck and mire upon it.
“Let him cheat—and Silver Cross cheat, and Saint Leofric’s, and Prior Hugh and Abbot Mark! I would have them cheat, bringing their inward outward! It is there. Let the horn blow for the toad to come forth!”
“I wish to see,” said Somerville, “the play they make! It will be players and masquers worth the fee! There will be Saint Willebrod, or who else they can impress, and Brother Richard, and a new Somewhat or That Which that works miracles—or an old That Which working with youth come again!”
“We are fallen on evil times! No miracles save those we work ourselves! And we are so clumsy!”
“Abbot Mark may be clumsy. I hold that the Prior of Westforest will marshal the play.”
“And they are more safe than coiners in some forest cavern!”
“That, sweetheart, is because we are so hungry for miracles. See how we beg Saint Leofric for more! We are so lantern-jawed that we will take marsh grain, so it be baked in a loaf!”