“An unfortunate prisoner,” was the answer.
“What is the occasion of thy imprisonment?”
“Oh, a mere trifle. A ridiculous suspicion of sacrificing a child to Beelzebub. One of the little disagreeables that must occasionally occur in our profession.”
“Our profession!” exclaimed Euschemon.
“Art thou not a sorcerer?” demanded the voice.
“No,” replied Euschemon, “I am a saint.”
The warlock received Euschemon’s statement with much incredulity, but becoming eventually convinced of its truth—
“I congratulate thee,” he said. “The devil has manifestly taken a fancy to thee, and he never forgets his own. It is true that the bishop is a great favourite with him also. But we will hope for the best. Thou hast never practised riding a broomstick? No? ’Tis pity; thou mayest have to mount one at a moment’s notice.”
This consolation had scarcely been administered ere the bolts flew back, the hinges grated, the door opened, and gaolers bearing torches informed the sorcerer that the bishop desired his presence.
He found the bishop in his study, which was nearly choked up by Euschemon’s bell. The prelate received him with the greatest affability, and expressed a sincere hope that the very particular arrangements he had enjoined for the comfort of his distinguished prisoner had been faithfully carried out by his subordinates. The sorcerer, as much a man of the world as the bishop, thanked his Lordship, and protested that he had been perfectly comfortable.