Presently one of the two laid aside his cloak and, baring his arms to the kiss of the wind that crept softly about them, said in weary accents:
"Never in all my life, Father, have I known a day to pass as tardily as this, for to me the coming hour is fraught with evil that may abide with me forever, and my soul is eager to know its doom, yet shrinks from the sentence that may be passed."
Odo of Cluny looked into Tristan's weary face.
"I, too, have a presentiment of Evil, as never before," the monk replied, laying a gentle hand on his companion's shoulder. "There are things abroad in Rome—one dares not even whisper. The Lord Alberic chose an evil hour for his pilgrimage to Monte Gargano. Have you no tidings?"
"No tidings," reechoed Tristan gloomily.
Odo of Cluny nodded pensively.
"It seems passing strange. I know not why—" his voice sank to a whisper. "I mistrust the Grand Chamberlain. Whom can we trust? A poison wind is blowing over these hills—withering—destroying. The awful sacrilege at Santa Maria in Trastevere, following so closely upon the one at the Lateran, is but another proof that dark powers are at work—powers defying human ken—devils in human shape, doomed to burn to a crisp in the eternal fires."
"Meanwhile—what can we do?"
"Have you seen the Lord Basil?"—
"He was much concerned, examined the place in person, but found no clue."