The Path of the King Page 4

  CHAPTER 3. THE WIFE OF FLANDERS

  From the bed set high on a dais came eerie spasms of laughter, a harshcackle like fowls at feeding time.

  "Is that the last of them, Anton?" said a voice.

  A little serving-man with an apple-hued face bowed in reply. He bowedwith difficulty, for in his arms he held a huge grey cat, which stillmewed with the excitement of the chase. Rats had been turned looseon the floor, and it had accounted for them to the accompaniment of ashrill urging from the bed. Now the sport was over, and the domesticswho had crowded round the door to see it had slipped away, leaving onlyAnton and the cat.

  "Give Tib a full meal of offal," came the order, "and away withyourself. Your rats are a weak breed. Get me the stout grey monsterslike Tuesday se'ennight."

  The room was empty now save for two figures both wearing the habit ofthe religious. Near the bed sat a man in the full black robe and hood ofthe monks of Cluny. He warmed plump hands at the brazier and seemed atease and at home. By the door stood a different figure in the shabbyclothes of a parish priest, a curate from the kirk of St. Martin's whohad been a scandalised spectator of the rat hunt. He shuffled his feetas if uncertain of his next step--a thin, pale man with a pinched mouthand timid earnest eyes.

  The glance from the bed fell on him "What will the fellow be at?" saidthe voice testily. "He stands there like a sow about to litter, andstares and grunts. Good e'en to you, friend. When you are wanted youwill be sent for Jesu's name, what have I done to have that howletglowering at me?"

  The priest at the words crossed himself and turned to go, with a tingeof red in his sallow cheeks. He was faithful to his duties and had cometo console a death bed, though he was well aware that his consolationswould be spurned.

  As he left there came again the eerie laughter from the bed. "Ugh, I amweary of that incomparable holiness. He hovers about to give me the St.John's Cup, and would fain speed my passing. But I do not die yet, goodfather. There's life still in the old wolf."

  The monk in a bland voice spoke some Latin to the effect that mortaltimes and seasons were ordained of God. The other stretched out a skinnyhand from the fur coverings and rang a silver bell. When Anton appearedshe gave the order "Bring supper for the reverend father," at which theCluniac's face mellowed into complacence.

  It was a Friday evening in a hard February. Out-of-doors the snow laydeep in the streets of Bruges, and every canal was frozen solid so thatcarts rumbled along them as on a street. A wind had risen whichdrifted the powdery snow and blew icy draughts through every chink.The small-paned windows of the great upper-room were filled with oiledvellum, but they did not keep out the weather, and currents of coldair passed through them to the doorway, making the smoke of the fourcharcoal braziers eddy and swirl. The place was warm, yet shot withbitter gusts, and the smell of burning herbs gave it the heaviness of achapel at high mass. Hanging silver lamps, which blazed blue and smoky,lit it in patches, sufficient to show the cleanness of the rush-strewnfloor, the glory of the hangings of cloth-of-gold and damask, and theburnished sheen of the metal-work. There was no costlier chamber in thatrich city.

  It was a strange staging for death, for the woman on the high bed wasdying. Slowly, fighting every inch of the way with a grim tenacity, butindubitably dying. Her vital ardour had sunk below the mark from whichit could rise again, and was now ebbing as water runs from a littlecrack in a pitcher. The best leeches in all Flanders and Artois hadcome to doctor her. They had prescribed the horrid potions of the age:tinctures of earth-worms; confections of spiders and wood-lice andviper's flesh; broth of human skulls, oil, wine, ants' eggs, and crabs'claws; the _bufo preparatus_, which was a live toad roasted in a pot andground to a powder; and innumerable plaisters and electuaries. She hadbegun by submitting meekly, for she longed to live, and had ended,for she was a shrewd woman, by throwing the stuff at the apothecaries'heads. Now she ordained her own diet, which was of lamb's flesh lightlyboiled, and woman's milk, got from a wench in the purlieus of St.Sauveur. The one medicine which she retained was powdered elk's horn,which had been taken from the beast between two festivals of the Virgin.This she had from the foresters in the Houthulst woods, and swallowed itin white wine an hour after every dawn.

  The bed was a noble thing of ebony, brought by the Rhine road fromVenice, and carved with fantastic hunting scenes by Hainault craftsmen.Its hangings were stiff brocaded silver, and above the pillows a greatunicorn's horn, to protect against poisoning, stood out like the beak ofa ship. The horn cast an odd shadow athwart the bed, so that a big clawseemed to lie on the coverlet curving towards the throat of her wholay there. The parish priest had noticed this at his first coming thatevening, and had muttered fearful prayers.

  The face on the pillows was hard to discern in the gloom, but when Antonlaid the table for the Cluniac's meal and set a lamp on it, he lit upthe cavernous interior of the bed, so that it became the main thing inthe chamber. It was the face of a woman who still retained the lines andthe colouring of youth. The voice had harshened with age, and the hairwas white as wool, but the cheeks were still rosy and the grey eyesstill had fire. Notable beauty had once been there. The finely archedbrows, the oval of the face which the years had scarcely sharpened,the proud, delicate nose, all spoke of it. It was as if their possessorrecognised those things and would not part with them, for her attire hadnone of the dishevelment of a sickroom. Her coif of fine silk was neatlyadjusted, and the great robe of marten's fur which cloaked her shoulderswas fastened with a jewel of rubies which glowed in the lamplight like astar.

  Something chattered beside her. It was a little brown monkey which hadmade a nest in the warm bedclothes.

  She watched with sharp eyes the setting of the table. It was a Friday'smeal and the guest was a monk, so it followed a fashion, but in thathouse of wealth, which had links with the ends of the earth, themonotony was cunningly varied. There were oysters from the Boulognecoast, and lampreys from the Loire, and pickled salmon from England.There was a dish of liver dressed with rice and herbs in the mannerof the Turk, for liver, though contained in flesh, was not reckonedas flesh by liberal churchmen. There was a roast goose from the shoremarshes, that barnacle bird which pious epicures classed as shell-fishand thought fit for fast days. A silver basket held a store of thintoasted rye-cakes, and by the monk's hand stood a flagon of that drinkmost dear to holy palates, the rich syrupy hippocras.

  The woman looked on the table with approval, for her house had alwaysprided itself upon its good fare. The Cluniac's urbane composure wasstirred to enthusiasm. He said a _Confiteor tibi Domine_, rolling thewords on his tongue as if in anticipation of the solider mouthfulsawaiting him. The keen weather had whetted his appetite and he thankedGod that his northern peregrinations had brought him to a house wherethe Church was thus honoured. He had liked the cavalier treatment of thelean parish priest, a sour dog who brought his calling into disfavourwith the rich and godly. He tucked back his sleeves, adjusted the linennapkin comfortably about his neck, and fell to with a will. He raisedhis first glass of hippocras and gave thanks to his hostess. A truemother in Israel!

  She was looking at him with favour. He was the breed of monk that sheliked, suave, well-mannered, observant of men and cities. Already he hadtold her entertaining matter about the French King's court, and the newBurgrave of Ghent, and the escapades of Count Baldwin. He had livedmuch among gentlefolk and kept his ears open.... She felt stronger andcheerfuller than she had been for days. That rat-hunt had warmed herblood. She was a long way from death in spite of the cackle of idiotchirurgeons, and there was much savour still in the world. There was herson, too, the young Philip.... Her eye saw clearer, and she noted thesombre magnificence of the great room, the glory of the brocade, thegleam of silver. Was she not the richest woman in all Bruges, aye, andin all Hainault and Guelderland? And the credit was her own. After thefashion of age in such moods her mind flew backward, and she saw veryplain a narrow street in a wind-swept town looking out on a bleak sea.She had been cold, then, and hungry
, and deathly poor. Well, she hadtravelled some way from that hovel. She watched the thick carved stemsof the candlesticks and felt a spacious ease and power.

  The Cluniac was speaking. He had supped so well that he was in love withthe world.

  "Your house and board, my lady, are queen-like. I have seen worse inpalaces."

  Her laugh was only half pleased. "Too fine, you would add, for a burgherwife. Maybe, but rank is but as man makes it. The Kings of England aresprung of a tanner. Hark you, father! I made a vow to God when I was amaid, and I have fulfilled my side of the bargain. I am come of a noblerrace than any Markgrave, aye, than the Emperor himself, and I swore toset the seed of my body, which the Lord might grant me, again among thegreat ones. Have I not done it? Is not Philip, my son, affianced to thatpale girl of Avesnes, and with more acres of pleasant land to his namethan any knightlet in Artois?"

  The Cluniac bowed a courtly head. "It is a great alliance--but not abovethe dignity of your house."

  "House you call it, and I have had the making of it. What was Willebaldbut a plain merchant-man, one of many scores at the Friday Market?Willebald was clay that I moulded and gilded till God put him to bedunder a noble lid in the New Kirk. A worthy man, but loutish and slowlike one of his own hookers. Yet when I saw him on the plainstones bythe English harbour I knew that he was a weapon made for my hand."

  Her voice had become even and gentle as of one who remembers far-awaythings. The Cluniac, having dipped his hands in a silver basin, wasdrying them in the brazier's heat. Presently he set to picking his teethdaintily with a quill, and fell into the listener's pose. From longexperience he knew the atmosphere which heralds confidences, and waswilling to humour the provider of such royal fare.

  "You have never journeyed to King's Lynn?" said the voice from the bed."There is little to see there but mudbars and fens and a noisy sea.There I dwelt when I was fifteen years of age, a maid hungry in souland body. I knew I was of the seed of Forester John and through him thechild of a motley of ancient kings, but war and famine had strippedour house to the bone. And now I, the last of the stock, dwelt witha miserly mother's uncle who did shipwright's work for the foreigncaptains. The mirror told me that I was fair to look on, thoughill-nourished, and my soul assured me that I had no fear. Therefore Ihad hope, but I ate my heart out waiting on fortune."

  She was looking at the monk with unseeing eyes, her head half turnedtowards him.

  "Then came Willebald one March morning. I saw him walk up the jetty in anew red cloak, a personable man with a broad beard and a jolly laugh.I knew him by repute as the luckiest of the Flemish venturers. In himI saw my fortune. That night he supped at my uncle's house and a weeklater he sought me in marriage. My uncle would have bargained, but I hadbecome a grown woman and silenced him. With Willebald I did not chaffer,for I read his heart and knew that in a little he would be wax to me. Sowe were wed, and I took to him no dowry but a ring which came to me frommy forebears, and a brain that gold does not buy."

  The monkey by her side broke into a chattering.

  "Peace, Peterkin," she said. "You mind me of the babbling of themerchant-folk, when I spurred Willebald into new roads. He had done ashis father before him, and bought wool and salted fish from the English,paying with the stuffs of our Flemish looms. A good trade of small andsure profits, but I sought bigger quarries. For, mark you, there wasmuch in England that had a value in this country of ours which noEnglishman guessed."

  "Of what nature?" the monk asked with curiosity in his voice.

  "Roman things. Once in that land of bogs and forests there were bustlingRoman towns and rich Roman houses, which disappeared as every tidebrought in new robbers from the sea. Yes, but not all. Much of thepreciousness was hidden and the place of its hiding forgotten. Bit bybit the churls found the treasure-trove, but they did not tell theirlords. They melted down jewels and sold them piecemeal to Jews forJews' prices, and what they did not recognise as precious they wantonlydestroyed. I have seen the marble heads of heathen gods broken with thehammer to make mortar of, and great cups of onyx and alabaster usedas water troughs for a thrall's mongrels.... Knowing the land, I sentpedlars north and west to collect such stuff, and what I bought forpence I sold for much gold in the Germanies and throughout the Frenchcities. Thus Willebald amassed wealth, till it was no longer worth hiswhile to travel the seas. We lived snug in Flanders, and our servantsthroughout the broad earth were busy getting us gear."

  The Cluniac was all interest. The making of money lay very near theheart of his Order. "I have heard wondrous tales of your enterprise," hetold her. "I would fain know the truth."

  "Packman's tricks," she laughed. "Nevertheless it is a good story. For Iturned my eyes to the East, whence come those things that make the prideof life. The merchants of Venice were princes, and it was in my head tomake those of Bruges no worse. What did it profit that the wind turneddaily the sails of our three hundred mills if we limited ourselves tocommon burgher wares and the narrow northern markets? We sent emissariesup the Rhine and beyond the Alps to the Venice princes, and broughthither the spices and confections of Egypt and the fruits and wines ofGreece, and the woven stuffs of Asia till the marts of Flanders had thesavour of Araby. Presently in our booths could be seen silks of Italy,and choice metals from Innsbruck, and furs from Muscovy, and strangebirds and beasts from Prester John's country, and at our fairs such aconcourse of outlandish traders as put Venice to shame. 'Twas a longfight and a bitter for Willebald and me, since, mark you, we had to makea new road over icy mountains, with a horde of freebooters hangingon the skirts of our merchant trains and every little burg on the wayjealous to hamper us. Yet if the heart be resolute, barriers will fall.Many times we were on the edge of beggary, and grievous were our losses,but in the end we triumphed. There came a day when we had so many bandsof the Free Companions in our pay that the progress of our merchandisewas like that of a great army, and from rivals we made the roadsideburgs our allies, sharing modestly in our ventures. Also there wereother ways. A pilgrim travels unsuspect, for who dare rob a holy man?and he is free from burgal dues; but if the goods be small and veryprecious, pilgrims may carry them."

  The monk, as in duty bound, shook a disapproving head.

  "Sin, doubtless," said the woman, "but I have made ample atonement. DidI not buy with a bushel of gold a leg of the blessed St. George for theNew Kirk, and give to St. Martin's a diamond as big as a thumb nail andso bright that on a dark day it is a candle to the shrine? Did not Igive to our Lady at Aix a crown of ostrich feathers the marrow of whichis not in Christendom?"

  "A mother in Israel, in truth," murmured the cleric.

  "Yea, in Israel," said the old wife with a chuckle. "Israel was thekernel of our perplexities. The good Flemings saw no farther than theirnoses, and laughed at Willebald when he began his ventures. When successcame, it was easy to win them over, and by admitting them to a share inour profits get them to fling their caps in the air and huzza for theirbenefactors. But the Jews were a tougher stock. Mark you, father, whenGod blinded their eyes to the coming of the Lord Christ, He opened themvery wide to all lower matters. Their imagination is quick to kindle,and they are as bold in merchantcraft as Charlemagne in war. They sawwhat I was after before I had been a month at it, and were quickto profit by my foresight. There are but two ways to deal withIsraelites--root them from the face of the earth or make them partnerswith you. Willebald would have fought them; I, more wise, bought themat a price. For two score years they have wrought faithfully for me. Yousay well, a mother in Israel!"

  "I could wish that a Christian lady had no dealings with the accursedrace," said the Cluniac.

  "You could wish folly," was the tart answer. "I am not as your burgherfolk, and on my own affairs I take no man's guiding, be he monk ormerchant. Willebald is long dead; may he sleep in peace, He was no matefor me, but for what he gave me I repaid him in the coin he loved best.He was a proud man when he walked through the Friday Market with everycap doffed. He was ever the burgher, like the child
I bore him."

  "I had thought the marriage more fruitful. They spoke of two children, adaughter and a son."

  The woman turned round in her bed so that she faced him. The monkeywhimpered and she cuffed its ears. Her face was sharp and exultant, andfor a sick person her eyes were oddly bright.

  "The girl was Willebald's. A poor slip of vulgar stock with the spiritof a house cat. I would have married her well, for she was handsomeafter a fashion, but she thwarted me and chose to wed a lout of ahuckster in the Bredestreet. She shall have her portion from Willebald'sgold, but none from me. But Philip is true child of mine, and sprung onboth sides of high race. Nay, I name no names, and before men he isof my husband's getting. But to you at the end of my days I speak thetruth. That son of wrath has rare blood in him. Philip..."

  The old face had grown kind. She was looking through the monk to somehappy country of vision. Her thoughts were retracing the roads of time,and after the way of age she spoke them aloud. Imperiously she hadforgotten her company.

  "So long ago," came the tender voice. "It is years since they told me hewas dead among the heathen, fighting by the Lord Baldwin's side. But Ican see him as if it were yesterday, when he rode into these streets inspring with April blooms at his saddle-bow. They called him Phadbus injest, for his face was like the sun.... Willebald, good dull man,was never jealous, and was glad that his wife should be seen in bravecompany. Ah, the afternoons at the baths when we sported like sea-nymphsand sang merry ballads! And the proud days of Carnival where men andwomen consorted freely and without guile like the blessed in Paradise!Such a tide for lovers!... Did I not lead the dance with him at theBurgrave's festival, the twain of us braver than morning? Sat I not withhim in the garden of St. Vaast, his head in my lap, while he sang mevirelays of the south? What was Willebald to me or his lean grey wifeto him? He made me his queen, me the burgher wife, at the jousting atCourtrai, when the horses squealed like pigs in the mellay and I weptin fear for him. Ah, the lost sweet days! Philip, my darling, you make abrave gentleman, but you will not equal him who loved your mother."

  The Cluniac was a man of the world whom no confidences could scandalise.But he had business of his own to speak of that night, and he thought itwise to break into this mood of reminiscence.

  "The young lord, Philip, your son, madam? You have great plans for him?What does he at the moment?"

  The softness went out of the voice and the woman's gaze came back to thechamber. "That I know not. Travelling the ways of the world and pluckingroadside fruits, for he is no home-bred and womanish stripling. Wearinghis lusty youth on the maids, I fear. Nay, I forget. He is about to wedthe girl of Avesnes and is already choosing his bridal train. It seemshe loves her. He writes me she has a skin of snow and eyes of vair. Ihave not seen her. A green girl, doubtless with a white face and cat'seyes. But she is of Avesnes, and that blood comes pure from Clovis, andthere is none prouder in Hainault. He will husband her well, but shewill be a clever woman if she tethers to her side a man of my bearing.He will be for the high road and the battle-front."

  "A puissant and peaceable knight, I have heard tell," said the Cluniac.

  "Puissant beyond doubt, and peaceable when his will is served. He willplay boldly for great things and will win them. Ah, monk! What knows achildless religious of a mother's certainty? 'Twas not for nothing thatI found Willebald and changed the cobbles of King's Lynn for this fatcountry. It is gold that brings power, and the stiffest royal neck mustbend to him who has the deep coffers. It is gold and his high hand thatwill set my Philip by the side of kings. Lord Jesus, what a fortune Ihave made for him! There is coined money at the goldsmiths' and in mycellars, and the ships at the ports, and a hundred busy looms, and landsin Hainault and Artois, and fair houses in Bruges and Ghent. Boats onthe Rhine and many pack trains between Antwerp and Venice are his, anda wealth of preciousness lies in his name with the Italian merchants.Likewise there is this dwelling of mine, with plenishing which few kingscould buy. My sands sink in the glass, but as I lie a-bed I hear thebustle of wains and horses in the streets, and the talk of shipfolk, andthe clatter of my serving men beneath, and I know that daily, hourly,more riches flow hither to furnish my son's kingdom."

  The monk's eyes sparkled at this vision of wealth, and he remembered hiserrand.

  "A most noble heritage. But if the Sire God in His inscrutableprovidence should call your son to His holy side, what provision haveyou made for so mighty a fortune? Does your daughter then share?"

  The face on the pillows became suddenly wicked and very old. The eyeswere lit with hate.

  "Not a bezant of which I have the bequeathing. She has something fromWillebald, and her dull husband makes a livelihood. 'Twill suffice forthe female brats, of whom she has brought three into the world to cumberit.... By the Gospels, she will lie on the bed she has made. I did notscheme and toil to make gold for such leaden souls."

  "But if your most worthy son should die ere he has begot children, haveyou made no disposition?" The monk's voice was pointed with anxiety,for was not certainty on this point the object of his journey? The womanperceived it and laughed maliciously.

  "I have made dispositions. Such a chapel will be builded in the New Kirkas Rome cannot equal. Likewise there will be benefactions for the poorand a great endowment for the monks at St. Sauveur. If my seed is not tocontinue on earth I will make favour in Paradise."

  "And we of Cluny, madam?" The voice trembled in spite of its training.

  "Nay I have not forgotten Cluny. Its Abbot shall have the gold flagonsfrom Jerusalem and some wherewithal in money. But what is this talk?Philip will not die, and like his mother he loves Holy Church and willbefriend her in all her works.... Listen, father, it is long past thehour when men cease from labour, and yet my provident folk are busy.Hark to the bustle below. That will be the convoy from the Vermandois.Jesu, what a night!"

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Flurries of snow beat on windows, and draughts stirred the hot ashesin the braziers and sent the smoke from them in odd spirals aboutthe chamber. It had become perishing cold, and the monkey among thebedclothes whimpered and snuggled closer into his nest. There seemed tobe a great stir about the house-door. Loud voices were heard in gusts,and a sound like a woman's cry. The head on the pillow was raised tolisten.

  "A murrain on those folk. There has been bungling among the pack-riders.That new man Derek is an oaf of oafs."

  She rang her silver bell sharply and waited on the ready footsteps. Butnone came. There was silence now below, an ominous silence.

  "God's curse upon this household," the woman cried. The monkey whimperedagain, and she took it by the scruff and tossed it to the floor. "Peace,ape, or I will have you strangled. Bestir yourself, father, and callAnton. There is a blight of deafness in this place."

  The room had suddenly lost its comfort and become cold and desolate. Thelamps were burning low and the coloured hangings were in deep shadow.The storm was knocking fiercely at the lattice.

  The monk rose with a shiver to do her bidding, but he was forestalled.Steps sounded on the stairs and the steward entered. The woman in thebed had opened her mouth to upbraid, when something in his dim figurestruck her silent.

  The old man stumbled forward and fell on his knees beside her.

  "Madam, dear madam," he stammered, "ill news has come to this house....There is a post in from Avesnes.... The young master..."

  "Philip," and the woman's voice rose to a scream. "What of my son?"

  "The lord has taken away what He gave. He is dead, slain in a scufflewith highway robbers.... Oh, the noble young lord! The fair youngknight! Woe upon this stricken house!"

  The woman lay very still, white the old man on his knees drifted intobroken prayers. Then he observed her silence, scrambled to his feet in apanic, and lit two candles from the nearest brazier. She lay back onthe pillows in a deathly faintness, her face drained of blood. Only hertortured eyes showed that life was still in her.

  Her voice cam
e at last, no louder than a whisper. It was soft now, butmore terrible than the old harshness.

  "I follow Philip," it said. "_Sic transit gloria_.... Call me Arnulf thegoldsmith and Robert the scrivener.... Quick, man, quick. I have much todo ere I die."

  As the steward hurried out, the Cluniac, remembering his office, soughtto offer comfort, but in his bland worldling's voice the consolationssounded hollow. She lay motionless, while he quoted the Scriptures.Encouraged by her docility, he spoke of the certain reward promised byHeaven to the rich who remembered the Church at their death. He touchedupon the high duties of his Order and the handicap of its poverty. Hebade her remember her debt to the Abbot of Cluny.

  She seemed about to speak and he bent eagerly to catch her words.

  "Peace, you babbler," she said. "I am done with your God. When I meetHim I will outface Him. He has broken His compact and betrayed me. Myriches go to the Burgrave for the comfort of this city where they werewon. Let your broken rush of a Church wither and rot!"

  Scared out of all composure by this blasphemy, the Cluniac fell tocrossing himself and mumbling invocations. The diplomat had vanished andonly the frightened monk remained. He would fain have left the room hadhe dared, but the spell of her masterful spirit held him. After that shespoke nothing....

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Again there was a noise on the stairs and she moved a little, as ifmustering her failing strength for the ultimate business. But it was notArnulf the gold smith. It was Anton, and he shook like a man on his wayto the gallows.

  "Madam, dear madam," he stammered, again on his knees. "There is anothermessage. One has come from the Bredestreet with word of your ladydaughter. An hour ago she has borne a child...A lusty son, madam."

  The reply from the bed was laughter.

  It began low and hoarse like a fit of coughing, and rose to the highcackling mirth of extreme age. At the sound both Anton and the monk tookto praying. Presently it stopped, and her voice came full and strong asit had been of old.

  "_Mea culpa_," it said, "_mea maxima culpa_. I judged the Sire God overhastily. He is merry and has wrought a jest on me. He has kept Hiscelestial promise in His own fashion. He takes my brave Philip and givesme instead a suckling.... So be it. The infant has my blood, and therace of Forester John will not die. Arnulf will have an easy task.He need but set the name of this new-born in Philip's place. What mannerof child is he, Anton? Lusty, you say, and well-formed? I would my armscould have held him.... But I must be about my business of dying. I willtake the news to Philip."

  Hope had risen again in the Cluniac's breast. It seemed that here wasa penitent. He approached the bed with a raised crucifix, and stumbledover the whimpering monkey. The woman's eyes saw him and a last flickerwoke in them.

  "Begone, man," she cried. "I have done with the world. Anton, rid meof both these apes. And fetch the priest of St. Martin's, for I wouldconfess and be shriven. Yon curate is no doubt a fool, but he serves myjesting God."