The next moment Doctor Montalto leapt flying over the threshold, sending the good priest head over heels into the corner. Swiftly slamming and barring the door behind him, he gave utterance to a long hollow noise, half a sigh of relief and half a moan of despair. Then he threw off his crimson gown and hood and wiped beads of sweat from his brow, groaning horribly the while. He was tall and thin beyond ordinary. His sparse black locks fell in wisps to his shoulders, his face was mere bone upon which the skin was stretched tight and transparent, his whitey blue eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, his nose was hooked like a bird’s beak, his mouth was a slit almost from ear to ear. His yellow hose and scarlet doublet were embroidered with cabalistic signs in green silk. In his belt were stuck a naked dagger and a couple of tooth-drawers. Round his neck he wore two rows of human teeth, the trophies of his art. The Bailiff had pushed back his chair a little farther into the corner. Sir John picked himself up and advanced hesitatingly towards his penitent. ‘The Saints bless thee,’ he said. ‘Thou art out of breath. Sit thee and drink.’ The Doctor’s face expanded laterally about the jaws, and he seemed softly to smack his lips. Sir John filled a tankard with warm ale. The Doctor took it in both hands and gulped it down at a draught. He refilled it from the stoup on the hearth. ‘Holy Father,’ he said, and the tears fell from his eyes, ‘I am a lost soul.’ He groaned and gulped his ale, and groaned again. ‘Despair not, my son,’ quoth the Parson. ‘The brand may be plucked from the burning even at the eleventh hour. The good Bailiff here hath discoursed of thee to me. Lo, I have diligently consulted my books, I have considered thy case, I discern the sickness in thy soul, I will prescribe for thee, I will prognosticate concerning thee. This is how the matter stands, is it not so? Thou art exceeding melancholy, thou hauntest solitary places; sleeping, thy slumbers are broken with horrible dreams; waking, thou seest visions in the sky, thou nearest voices in the air, thy food turneth to dust in thy mouth, thy drink scarifieth thy throat; is it not so?’ ‘Ay, ay,’ moaned the Doctor, applying himself to his tankard. ‘The Devil tempteth thee day and night, he allureth thee, he fondleth thee. Perchance thou yieldest to him?’ ‘Worse, worse,’ moaned the Doctor. ‘Ha, ha,’ cried Sir John, rubbing his hands, ‘Methought I should ferret thee out. Lo, Master Bailiff, you see what cometh of this book-learning of mine?’ ‘Worse, worse,’ cried the Doctor in a loud voice. ‘I have sold my immortal soul to the Devil for ever and aye.’ ‘Holy Mary,’ cried the Bailiff, signing himself again and again. Sir John dropped on his knees and rattled off prayers faster than a woman could shell peas. The Doctor emptied his tankard and turned it upside down on the table with a bang.