'God of Ishril! O, yes! O, to be sure! I can bleed moneys!'
'Nay,' said the Saint, 'but sweat them. Go!'
The coiner was dragged away blaspheming. He would have preferred a
moderate dose of the rack; but the standard set by his sentence elicited
a murmur of popular approval. From all, that is to say, but Tassino,
who saw his own fate looming big by comparison. He rose and looked
about him desperately, as if he contemplated bolting. The spectators
edged together. He whinnied. Suddenly the stranger's voice swooped upon
him like a hawk:--
'Man's image shall be restored; restore thou God's.'