“He must suffer--he must suffer--lolalla--lolalla--lolalla!”
The abbé was really frightened now. The wailing melancholy of the
chaunt, the hideous shapes of the men who rode at his side, the
strange, distorted whitened faces, seemed to him to resemble nothing
human, nothing known. Minute by minute the conviction crept upon him
that here was the scarlet witch of whom the common people spoke in
their folk-tales. The more he said to himself “It is a jest,” the
farther was his mind from accepting that assurance. He shuddered when
he remembered that he was alone with jesters so terrible.
“Oh,” he moaned at last, “what do you want with me, what would you do
with me?”
“Oh,” echoed the crowd with stentorian voice, “what do you want with
us, what would you do with us?”
“Sirs,” wailed the abbé, “for pity’s sake have done with it and take
me where you will. I have but ten crowns upon me, and those you shall
find in my pouch. Get them, I pray you, and permit me to go in peace.”
A mocking peal of laughter attended this simple confession.
“What shall be done with the ten crowns of the Lord Bishop of Blois?”
asked a great horned goblin who rode upon the smallest of the small
white ponies.