"Answer me then—you who boast of being inspired from above—you who listen to the music of the spheres in the dead watches of the night—tell me then, you man of God—how long am I to live?"
"Monster, relieve me of your sight!" shrieked the unhappy wretch.
"It is the light," mocked Basil. "The light from above. Raise your voice, monk, and prophesy. You who would hurl the anathema upon Basil, the Grand Chamberlain, who arrogated to yourself the mission to purge the universe and to summon me—me—before the tribunal of the Church—tell me, you, who aspired to take to his bed the spouse of the devil, till the white lightnings of her passion seared and blasted your carcass,—tell me—how long am I to live?"
An inarticulate shriek came from within.
"By justice—till the dead rise from their graves."
"Live forever—on an empty phrase?" Basil mocked. "Are you, too, provisioned for eternity?"
He held out his hand as if he were offering the starving wretch food.
The monk fell on his knees. His lips moved, but no sound was audible.
"Perchance he hath a vision," Basil turned to Maraglia who stood sullenly by.
"Oh, dull this living agony."