“I’ve never seen the like of this grey shadow-work,” said the Abbot. “How came you by it?”
“Non nobis! It came to me,” said John, not knowing he was a generation or so ahead of his time in the use of that medium.
“Why is she so pale?” the Friar demanded.
“Evil has all come out of her—she’d take any colour now.”
“Ay, like light through glass. I see.”
Roger of Salerno was looking in silence—his nose nearer and nearer the page. “It is so,” he pronounced finally. “Thus it is in epilepsy—mouth, eyes, and forehead—even to the droop of her wrist there. Every sign of it! She will need restoratives, that woman, and, afterwards, sleep natural. No poppy-juice, or she will vomit on her waking. And thereafter—but I am not in my Schools.” He drew himself up. “Sir,” said he, “you should be of Our calling. For, by the Snakes of Aesculapius, you see!”
The two struck hands as equals.
“And how think you of the Seven Devils?” the Abbot went on.
These melted into convoluted flower- or flame-like bodies, ranging in colour from phosphorescent green to the black purple of outworn iniquity, whose hearts could be traced beating through their substance. But, for sign of hope and the sane workings of life, to be regained, the deep border was of conventionalised spring flowers and birds, all crowned by a kingfisher in haste, atilt through a clump of yellow iris.
Roger of Salerno identified the herbs and spoke largely of their virtues.