“I certainly don’t look half so well without my horns,” he soliloquised, “and I am sure I shall miss my tail most grievously.”
A tiara and a train, however, made fair amends for the deficient appendages, and Lucifer now looked every inch a Pope. He was about to call the master of the ceremonies, and summon a consistory, when the door was burst open, and seven cardinals, brandishing poniards, rushed into the room.
“Down with the sorcerer!” they cried, as they seized and gagged him.
“Death to the Saracen!”
“Practises algebra, and other devilish arts!”
“Knows Greek!”
“Talks Arabic!”
“Reads Hebrew!”
“Burn him!”
“Smother him!”