“And the other ave?” said the daemon.
“She died, sir—my sister died—death choked her in the middle of the prayer.” And hereat the wretched spirit began to weepe and whine piteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and scalding the tail of Mercurius the devil.
“It is, in truth, a hard case,” said the daemon; “but I know of no remedy save patience, and for that you will have an excellent opportunity in your lodgings below.”
“But I have relations,” said the Earl; “my kinsman Randal, who has inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?”
“Thou didst hate and oppress him when living.”
“It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, Matilda—”
“You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover.”
“Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?”
“A dozen, without doubt.”
“And my brother, the prior?”