“Hush!” said Thomas the Infirmarian. “The little creatures shall be sanctified--sanctified to the service of His sick.” “What need?” John of Burgos wiped his lips. “It shows no more than the shapes of things. It gives good pictures. I had it at Granada. It was brought from the East, they told me.” Roger of Salerno laughed with an old man’s malice. “What of Mother Church? Most Holy Mother Church? If it comes to Her ears that we have spied into Her Hell without Her leave, where do we stand?” “At the stake,” said the Abbot of St. Illod’s, and, raising his voice a trifle. “You hear that? Roger Bacon, heard you that?” The Friar turned from the window, clutching the compasses tighter. “No, no!” he appealed. “Not with Falcodi--not with our English-hearted Foulkes made Pope. He’s wise--he’s learned. He reads what I have put forth. Foulkes would never suffer it.” “‘Holy Pope is one thing, Holy Church another,’” Roger quoted. “But I--_I_ can bear witness it is no Art Magic,” the Friar went on. “Nothing is it, except Art optical--wisdom after trial and experiment, mark you. I can prove it, and--my name weighs with men who dare think.” “Find them!” croaked Roger of Salerno. “Five or six in all the world. That makes less than fifty pounds by weight of ashes at the stake. I have watched such men--reduced.” “I will not give this up!” The Friar’s voice cracked in passion and despair. “It would be to sin against the Light.” “No, no! Let us--let us sanctify the little animals of Varro,” said Thomas. Stephen leaned forward, fished his ring out of the cup, and slipped it on his finger. “My sons,” said he, “we have seen what we have seen.” “That it is no magic but simple Art,” the Friar persisted. “’Avails nothing. In the eyes of Mother Church we have seen more than is permitted to man.” “But it was Life--created and rejoicing,” said Thomas. “To look into Hell as we shall be judged--as we shall be proved--to have looked, is for priests only.” “Or green-sick virgins on the road to sainthood who, for cause any mid-wife could give you----” The Abbot’s half-lifted hand checked Roger of Salerno’s outpouring. “Nor may even priests see more in Hell than Church knows to be there. John, there is respect due to Church as well as to Devils.” “My trade’s the outside of things,” said John quietly. “I have my patterns.” “But you may need to look again for more,” the Friar said. “In my craft, a thing done is done with. We go on to new shapes after that.” “And if we trespass beyond bounds, even in thought, we lie open to the judgment of the Church,” the Abbot continued. “But thou knowest--_knowest_!” Roger of Salerno had returned to the attack. “Here’s all the world in darkness concerning the causes of things--from the fever across the lane to thy Lady’s--thine own Lady’s--eating malady. Think!” “I have thought upon it, Salerno! I have thought indeed.”