The voice spoke to him of life. It was the name he had borne in the world and he wondered who from that world could be addressing him.
He answered quaveringly.
"Of a truth, I am hungry and a-thirst."
"It is a beatitude," replied the voice suavely. "You shall have your fill of justice."
"Justice!" screamed the prisoner. "I fear it is but an empty phrase."
"Comfort yourself," said the other. "I shall make a full measure of it! It shall bubble and sparkle to the brim like a goblet of Cyprian. Know you the wine, monk? A cool fragrant liquid, that gurgles down the arid throat and brings visions of green meadows and sparkling brooks—"
"I ask no mercy," cried the monk, falling on his knees and stretching out his lean arms. "Only make an end of it—of this hellish torment."
"Torment?" came the voice from above. "What torment is there in the vision of the wine cup—or, for that matter, a feast on groaning tables under the trees? Are you not rich in experiences, Barnabo,—both of the board and of love? Remember the hours when she lay in your arms, innocent, save of original sin? Ah! Could she see you now, Barnabo—how you have changed! No more the elegant courtier that wooed Theodora ere despair drove you to don the penitential garb and, like Balaam's ass, to raise your voice and prophesy! Deem you—as fate has thrown her into these arms of mine—memory will revive the forgotten joys of the days of long ago?"
"Mercy—demon!" gasped the monk. His swollen throat could hardly shape the words.
Basil laughed and bent lower.