“These things must not be;” the hermit’s forehead was almost turning white.
“These things are! and Ulrich and all his crew, if they love saints little, fear them much. Therefore go to him boldly and demand from him the maid.”
“And if he refuse?” pressed Jerome.
“He will not refuse, yet if he slay you, are there no glories for the martyr?”
The hermit took a step toward her.
“I will go.”
That was all he said. As he approached she moved back noiselessly, as by some occult power; her round little body seemed to glide,—not walk. In an instant she vanished, with only Zebek’s hoarse call to die away in the depths of the forest.
“Ho, he! Never fear!
I’m Satan! I’m here!”