I’m Satan! I’m here!”
Jerome crossed his breast, but he did not thrust these blasphemers off. Nevertheless a shrill voice from behind a great black fir commanded sharply:—
“Zodok, Zebek,—sons of Beherit and grandsons of Lucifer,—back, both of you, and fear the sign of the cross.”
Whereupon with a whir, sudden as that which had brought them, the inky pair were gone toward the summons. Jerome had fixed his beetling eyebrows upon the black fir tree.
“Martha, you child of Perdition.”
“Here, and very much at your service, Sanctissime,” came back the feminine voice, half mocking, half respectful.
“Saint me no saints, or if my curse avails with God or angel, you receive it. What brings you again, witch and necromancer, abhorred by all save the Father Devil?”
“Benedicte, thanks to you for such sweetness. Well, I have a work for you more pleasing to God than scourges and fasting.”
“Work from you? Can any good thing come out of you, O spawn of Beelzebub?”
“‘Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?’ ay, so the Jews said, and mayhap quite rightly.” Here all the glade reëchoed with a long shrieking laugh, whilst Zodok and Zebek croaked gleefully.