’Torture, quotha!’ cried the fiend above—’what torture in the vision of a wine-cup crushed, or, for the matter of that, a feast on white tables under trees. Picture it, Capello: the quails in cold jelly; the melting pasties; the salmon-trout tucked under blankets of whipped cream; the luscious peaches, and apricots like maiden’s cheeks. Why, art not a Conventual, man, and rich in such experiences of the belly? And to call ’em torture—fie!’ ’Mercy!’ gasped the monk. His swollen throat could hardly shape the word. Galeazzo laughed, and bent over. ’Answer, then: how long am I to live?’ ’By justice, for ever.’ ’What! live for ever on an empty phrase? Then art thou, too, provisioned for eternity.’ He held out his hand:— ’Art humbled at last, monk, or monkey? How much for a nut?’ Leaping at the mad thought of some relenting in the voice and question, the prisoner ran under the outstretched hand, and held up his own, abjectly, fulsomely. ’Master, give it me—one—one only, to dull this living agony!’ ’A sop to thee, then,’ cried Galeazzo, and dropped a chestnut. The monk caught it, and, cracking it between his teeth, roared out and fell spitting and sputtering. He had crunched upon nothing more savoury than a shell filled up with river slime. The Duke screamed and hopped with laughter. ’Is not that richer than quail, more refreshing than Malmsey?’ The monk fell on his knees:— ’Now hear me, God!’ he gabbled awry: ’Let not this man ever again know surcease from torment, in bed, at board, in his body, or in his mind. Let his lust consummate in frostbite; let the worm burrow in his entrails, and the maggot in his brain. May his drink be salt, and his meat bitter as aloes. May his short lease of wicked life be cancelled, and death seize him, and damnation wither in the moment of his supreme impenitence. Darken his vision, so that for evermore it shall see despair and the mockery of fruitless hope. Let him walk a self-conscious leper in the sunshine, and strive vainly to propitiate the loathing in eyes in which he sees himself reflected an abhorred and filthy ape. May the curse of Assisi——’ Galeazzo screamed him down:— ’Quote him not—beast—vile apostate from his teaching!’ For a moment the two battled in a war of screeching blasphemy: the next, the grate was flung into place, the light whisked and vanished, a door slammed, and the blackness of the cell closed once more upon the moaning heap in its midst. Quaking and ashen, babbling oaths and prayers, Galeazzo flung back to his closet. ’Bring wine!’ he shook out between his teeth to Jacopo. When it came, he tasted, and flung it from him. ’Salt!’ he shrieked. His fancy quite overcrowed his reason. ’O God, I am poisoned!’ He rose, staggering, and entered his oratory, and cast himself on his knees before the little shrine.