So few know when they are bought!
But all are bought,
Few, few escape!”
He looked through snow to castle rock. “Ha, Montjoy, do you escape?”
For a moment a hand, as it were, wiped life from his face, leaving it haggard and empty. But witches trooped at whistle, sardonic mirth came back. “We buy and we are bought! Why not—if the world is Pennyworth Fair? If little good is had, so is little harm. It’s an empty barn, Montjoy, where the wind whistles!
“Little good will come,
Little harm will come
Of Abbot Mark,
Of Silver Cross—
While away the day with plucking at the lute’s three strings!”