For answer Martin Luther slid in, closing the door behind him. The fool did not speak, but turning his eyes first on one thing and then on another nodded sagely.
"Well?" I growled.
"You are off, master," he said, nodding again. "I thought so."
"Why did you think so?" I retorted impatiently.
"It is time for the young birds to fly when the cuckoo begins to stir," he answered.
I understood him dimly and in part. "You have been listening," I said wrathfully, my cheeks burning.
"And been kicked in the face like a fool for my pains," he answered. "Ah, well, it is better to be kicked by the boot you love than kissed by the lips you hate. But Master Francis, Master Francis!" he continued in a whisper.
He said no more, and I looked up. The man was stooping slightly forward, his pale face thrust out. There was a strange gleam in his eyes, and his teeth grinned in the moonlight. Thrice he drew his finger across his lean knotted throat. "Shall I?" he hissed, his hot breath reaching me, "shall I?"
I recoiled from him shuddering. It was a ghastly pantomime, and it seemed to me that I saw madness in his eyes.
"In Heaven's name, no!" I cried--"No! Do you hear, Martin? No!"