Richard rose on one elbow, his face sharpening.
“Ah! I will hear you. Miles, out of the room; but guard the door. Let no one enter unless I call.”
The squire left Merlin standing there with folded hands, hiding exultation with humility.
“Now, Master Friar.”
“Sir, I, a son of St. Francis, walking the ways of this wicked world, have heard many strange things, learnt many strange secrets. I came to London with the rebels.”
Richard sat up in bed, and his eyes were mistrustful.
“The rebels, say you?”
Merlin held up his crucifix.
“My son, have no fear. I was with them, to serve at a crisis. I spoke to them of peace and goodwill, but sometimes God bids us hate when hatred is just and good. Hear me.”
He leant forward and began to speak in whispers, his libidinous lips moving quickly under the shadow of his cowl. The lad in bed seemed bewitched; he did not move or utter a word, but his eyes were full of sinister lights. Merlin watched him. Hate was beckoning to an unconfessed hate, bidding it show itself and come out into the open. He had guessed cunningly, and he had guessed well.