“Oh! no, indeed. Is there one in all Bruges would do it, or I expect it of him?”
“Well, well, do not croak; but you know by experience that it is hard to live.”
“If you will get me what I want of Simon, you shall have one-fourth of my future reward and Simon one-fourth.”
“Too mean terms, those, Jan,” said Peter quietly, but intently watching his friend’s face.
“Very well, each a third, then; I knew you would want no less. But, look you,” he added, brightening up, “no one can share the fame, and I shall be known all over Flanders and Brabant, and France—ay, even Italy and Germany; and who knows if the Greek merchants will not carry my name to the court of Constantinople itself?—and you two poor wretches will have nothing but a pitiful handful of gold.”
“Quite enough for me, at any rate,” said Peter composedly; “it will be more than I ever had before. But do not let us 'count our chickens before they are hatched.’ What is it, though, that you want to work this miracle with?”
“Only a vial of her blood after the girl has been dead four hours.”
Peter betrayed no emotion.
“Rather an unusual request,” he said meditatively, “and one that savors strongly of witchcraft, which you know is scarcely less dangerous than heresy. You remember what happened at Constance scarcely more than ten years ago?”
“Nonsense! What has heresy to do with the mixing of my colors? And who but a leech will find out the mixture? And after all, if a fool were to use this potion just mixed as I shall mix it, and paint a picture with it, his picture would be only fit for a tavern-sign, and no one could tell the difference. If you need the ingredients, you need the skill more.”