“I have need of thy art,” said the bishop, coming to business. “I am exceedingly bothered—flabbergasted were not too strong an expression—by this confounded bell. All my best exorcists have been trying all they know with it, to no purpose. They might as well have tried to exorcise my mitre from my head by any other charm than the offer of a better one. Magic is plainly the only remedy, and if thou canst disenchant it, I will give thee thy freedom.”
“It will be a tough business,” observed the sorcerer, surveying the bell with the eye of a connoisseur. “It will require fumigations.”
“Yes,” said the bishop, “and suffumigations.”
“Aloes and mastic,” advised the sorcerer.
“Aye,” assented the bishop, “and red sanders.”
“We must call in Primeumaton,” said the warlock.
“Clearly,” said the bishop, “and Amioram.”
“Triangles,” said the sorcerer.
“Pentacles,” said the bishop.
“In the hour of Methon,” said the sorcerer.