Then he said slowly-- "Go as you came, in peace, O man of wrath and evil, but know that the curse of the Church shall follow you.

I say that you stand near to ill." Sir John looked at him.

The anger went out of his face, and, instead, upon it appeared something strange--a breath of foresight, an inspiration, call it what you will.
"By heaven and all its saints! I think you are right, Clement Maldon," he muttered.

"Beneath that black dress of yours you are a man like the rest of us, are you not?
You have a heart, you have members, you have a brain to think with; you are a fiddle for God to play on, and however much your superstitions mask and alter it, out of those strings now and again will come some squeak of truth.

Well, I am another fiddle, of a more honest sort, mayhap, though I do not lift two fingers of my right hand and say, 'Benedicite, my son,' and 'Your sins are forgiven you'; and just now the God of both of us plays His tune in me, and I will tell you what it is.