Roger Arcot explores the fringes of a really never forgotten world,the introduction to which is an aged manuscript De Necromantiae, andthe wish, not too repressed, to pledge your soul to the Devil! There aremany strange memories and unhappy frustrated souls in this FantasticUniverse of ours—strange and sinister memories and stranger urges,frightening urges that refuse to die in the heart of Brother Ambrose.
He had borne the thousand and one injuries with humility andcharity. But the insults! These were more than he could suffer....
Gr-r-r! There he goesagain! Brother Ambrose couldscarce restrain the hatredthat seethed and churned inhis breast, as his smallisheyes followed Brother Lorenzoheaded once more forhis beloved geraniums, theinevitable watering-potgripped in both hands, theinevitable devotions rising ina whispered stream from hissaintly lips. The very fact theman lived was a mockery tohuman justice: God's blood,but if thoughts could onlykill.
Ave, Virgo!
The thousand and one injuriesof Fray Lorenzo hehad borne as a Christianmonk should, with humilityand charity. But the insults,aye, the insults to faith andreason! They were more thana generous Father could expectHis most adoring servantto suffer, weren't they?To have to sit next to theman, for instance, at eveningmeal and hear his silly prattleof the weather. Nextyear's crop of cork: we canscarcely expect oak-galls, hesays. Isn't petroselinum thename for parsley? (No, it'sGreek, you swine. And what'sthe Greek name for Swine'sSnout? I could hurl it atyou, like the Pope hurlinganathema.) Salve tibi! Itsticks in one's craw to blesshim with the rest. WouldGod our cloister numberedthirty-and-nine instead offorty.
For days now, for weeks,Brother Ambrose had witnessedand endured the falsepiety of the man. How he'dever got admitted to the orderin the first place beat allsupposition. It must havebeen his sanctimonious apple-cheeksor (Heaven forbidsuch simony), some rich relativegreased the palm of thePrior. Saint, forsooth!
Brother Ambrose recalledjust a week previous; theyhad been outside the walls,a round dozen of the brothers,gathering the first fewbushels of grapes to make thegood Benedictine wine. Andall men tended to their dutyin the vineyard—save who?Save lecherous Lorenzo,whose job was to attend thepress. Picked the assignmenthimself, most likely, so hecould ogle the brown thighsand browner ankles ofDolores squatting on the Conventbank, gitana slut withher flashing eyes and hint ofsweet delight in those cherry-redlips and coquettishtossing shoulders. A mancould see she was child ofthe devil, flesh to tempt toeternal hellfire.
But how skillful BrotherLorenzo had been in keepingthe glow in his dead eye frombeing seen by the others!Only Ambrose had known itwas there. Invisible to eventhe world, perhaps; but lurkingjust the same in Lorenzo'sfeverishly disguisedbrain. Si, there and lustingbeyond a doubt. By one'sfaith, the blue-black hair ofDolores would make anyweak man itch; and the storiesthat had floated on thebreeze that day, livelily exchangedbetween her and thatroguish Sanchicha, the lavandera;Lorenzo must surelyhave lapped them all up likea hungry spaniel, though hecleverly turned his headaway so you would not guess.After all, Ambrose, scarcelya step closer, could recallclearly every word of thebawdy tales!
Back to the table again;and Brother Ambrose oncemore noticed how Fray Lorenzonever let