“My trade’s the outside of things,” said John quietly. “I have my patterns.”
“But you may need to look again for more,” the Friar said.
“In my craft, a thing done is done with. We go on to new shapes after that.”
“And if we trespass beyond bounds, even in thought, we lie open to the judgment of the Church,” the Abbot continued.
“But thou knowest—knowest!” Roger of Salerno had returned to the attack. “Here’s all the world in darkness concerning the causes of things—from the fever across the lane to thy Lady’s—thine own Lady’s—eating malady. Think!”
“I have thought upon it, Salerno! I have thought indeed.”
Thomas the Infirmarian lifted his head again; and this time he did not stammer at all. “As in the water, so in the blood must they rage and war with each other! I have dreamed these ten years—I thought it was a sin—but my dreams and Varro’s are true! Think on it again! Here’s the Light under our very hand!”
“Quench it! You’d no more stand to roasting than—any other. I’ll give you the case as Church—as I myself—would frame it. Our John here returns from the Moors, and shows us a hell of devils contending in the compass of one drop of water. Magic past clearance! You can hear the faggots crackle.”
“But thou knowest! Thou hast seen it all before! For man’s poor sake! For old friendship’s sake—Stephen!” The Friar was trying to stuff the compasses into his bosom as he appealed.
“What Stephen de Sautré knows, you his friends know also. I would have you, now, obey the Abbot of St. Illod’s. Give to me!” He held out his ringed hand.