'You shall see deeds. Who is it stands well with you?'
'No one. Many wish it.'
'Your promised man should; but he is old, and a poor creature. 'Twould be no credit to do away with him.'
'He is a poor creature,' said Santina, her lips curling. 'So are you, when to do a woman a pleasure you will not open a grave.'
'Open a grave! Nay, nay, the saints forbid.'
'The saints! That is how all weaklings and cowards talk. What harm could it do any saint in heaven for you to get those magic things? If they be the devil's toys and tools, as you say, more reason to pluck them out of holy ground.'
'How you go on!' muttered Caris, whose slower brain was scared and terrified by his companion's rapid and fearless strides of thought. 'Heaven have mercy on us! You would have me commit sacrilege! Rifle a tomb! Holy Christ! and that tomb my mother's!'
The sweat stood on his brow, and made the chestnut curls of his hair wet as with dew or rain.
Santina poured into his all the magnetic force and fire of her own eyes, shining in the dusk like some wild cat of the woods.
'Sacrilege! whew! Where got you that big word? You put the things in; you can take the things out. Your mother will sleep sounder without them. I want them, my lad, do you understand? I want them. And what I want I get from those who love me; and those who deny me, hate me, and I hate them.'