palsy that shook him. If _she_, the girl
who had destroyed him, thought it was all one to him whom the drug
advantaged, or who lived or who died, he would teach her--before he
died! He would teach her! There was no extremity of pain or shame she
should not taste, accursed witch, accursed thief, as she was! But he
must not think of that, or of her, now; or he would die before his time.
He had a little time yet, if he were careful, if he were cool, if he
were left a brief space to recover himself. A little, a very little
time!

Whose were that foot and that voice? Basterga's? The Syndic's eyes
gleamed, he raised his head. There was another score he had to pay! His
own score, not Baudichon's. Fool, to have left his treasure unguarded
for every thieving wench to take! Fool, thrice and again, for putting
his neck back into the lion's mouth. Stealthily Blondel pulled the
handbell nearer to him and covered it with his cloak. He would have
added a weapon, but there was no arm within reach, and while he
hesitated between his chair and the door of the small inner room, the
outer door opened, and Basterga appeared and advanced, smiling, towards
him.

"Your servant, Messer Syndic," he said. "I heard that you had been
inquiring for me in my absence, and I am here to place myself at your
disposition. You are not looking----" he stopped short, in feigned
surprise. "There is nothing wrong, I hope?"

Had the scholar been such a man as Baudichon, Blondel's answer would
have been one frenzied shriek of insults and reproaches. But face to
face with Basterga's massive quietude, with his giant bulk, with that
air, at once masterful and cynical, which proclaimed to those with whom
he talked that he gave them but half his mind while reading theirs, the
wrath of the smaller man cooled. A moment his lips writhed, without
sound; then, "Wrong?" he cried, his voice harsh and broken. "Wrong? All
is wrong!"

"You are not well?" Basterga said, eyeing him with concern.

"Well? I shall never be better! Never!" Blondel shrieked. And after a
pause, "Curse you!" he added. "It is your doing!"

Basterga stared. He was in the dark as to what had happened, though the
Syndic's manner on leaving the bridge had prepared him for something.
"My doing, Messer Blondel?" he said. "Why? What have I done?"

"Done?"

"Ay, done! It was not my fault," the scholar continued, with a touch of
sternness, "that I could not offer you the _remedium_ on easy terms. Nor