“Ay,” answered Hayraddin, “it required neither astrologer, or physiognomist, nor chiromantist to foretell that I should follow the destiny of my family.”
“Brought to this early end by thy long course of crime and treachery?” said the Scot.
“No, by the bright Aldebaran and all his brother twinklers!” answered the Bohemian. “I am brought hither by my folly in believing that the bloodthirsty cruelty of a Frank could be restrained even by what they themselves profess to hold most sacred. A priest's vestment would have been no safer garb for me than a herald's tabard, however sanctimonious are your professions of devotion and chivalry.”
“A detected impostor has no right to claim the immunities of the disguise he had usurped,” said Durward.
“Detected!” said the Bohemian. “My jargon was as good as yonder old fool of a herald's, but let it pass. As well now as hereafter.”
“You abuse time,” said Quentin. “If you have aught to tell me, say it quickly, and then take some care of your soul.”
“Of my soul?” said the Bohemian, with a hideous laugh. “Think ye a leprosy of twenty years can be cured in an instant?—If I have a soul, it hath been in such a course since I was ten years old and more, that it would take me one month to recall all my crimes, and another to tell them to the priest!—and were such space granted me, it is five to one I would employ it otherwise.”
“Hardened wretch, blaspheme not! Tell me what thou hast to say, and I leave thee to thy fate,” said Durward, with mingled pity and horror.
“I have a boon to ask,” said Hayraddin; “but first I will buy it of you; for your tribe, with all their professions of charity, give naught for naught.”
“I could well nigh say, thy gifts perish with thee,” answered Quentin, “but that thou art on the very verge of eternity.—Ask thy boon—reserve thy bounty—it can do me no good—I remember enough of your good offices of old.”