When he was at this ebb and scurf of himself he liked so to loosen her tongue, for she could then flay for him--skilfully as ever Apollo flayed Marsyas--that breadth of living, that cluster of folk or that individual that he chose to lead to her. Perhaps she knew them, or perhaps she took them and their acts from his lips. Either way, with a vigour of disdain, a vigour of hate, of anger against an universe that was increasingly giving her now ennui and now whips of scorpions, she drew from them and held aloft a skin of attributes and motives that made dreadful laughter for the onlookers. She and Somerville were the onlookers. In these moods he was her demon and she was his. They sat cheek by jowl, in the lowest strata of themselves, drinking each the worst of the other, poisoning and poisoned. When they came to embraces, to a pitiful, animal revivification--thinking so to get light and solace--that was the lesser harm. Somerville brought into their talk Brother Richard Englefield. “There is a monk at Silver Cross. Watch for appearances and miracles there also!” “What can church say to us? Where’s honesty? Here, Rob, here!” “He is a tall, brown-gold man that was a goldsmith once. He can still make you lovely things in silver and gold.” “So he becomes cheating alchemist and all his gold is lead and brass!” “Much like thine own!” said a loud voice within Morgen Fay. She struck at it, would not have it, poured to-night, being to-night a slut, muck and mire upon it. “Let him cheat--and Silver Cross cheat, and Saint Leofric’s, and Prior Hugh and Abbot Mark! I would have them cheat, bringing their inward outward! It is there. Let the horn blow for the toad to come forth!” “I wish to see,” said Somerville, “the play they make! It will be players and masquers worth the fee! There will be Saint Willebrod, or who else they can impress, and Brother Richard, and a new Somewhat or That Which that works miracles--or an old That Which working with youth come again!” “We are fallen on evil times! No miracles save those we work ourselves! And we are so clumsy!” “Abbot Mark may be clumsy. I hold that the Prior of Westforest will marshal the play.” “And they are more safe than coiners in some forest cavern!” “That, sweetheart, is because we are so hungry for miracles. See how we beg Saint Leofric for more! We are so lantern-jawed that we will take marsh grain, so it be baked in a loaf!” She laughed. “All gaunt with hunger--getting wolf-toothed. I, too, have whined and will whine again, for a miracle!” He poured her more wine. “It’s a wicked old world! The only way is to grin and shove it along.” “Unless you stop it with a rope. If I were sure I _could_ stop it.” “Drink your wine. Here’s to Brother Richard--dog-monk noseing out the unearthly!” She drank. “Here’s to Prior Matthew the marshal! If it’s to be a good play, I would be a playgoer!” “Here’s to the rotten time--the hungry people!”