But a curse came in good earnest two days later. The terror of that
has never left me. I saw a man die who loved me better than his honor
or his God. He refused, dying, to give me back to the man from whom he
had stolen me. The priest who stood by his bed implored him. He
refused and the priest turned from him without saying the words of
absolution. When the chill came on him he hissed and spit at us, and
croaked his curses, but the death rattle kept choking them back into
him, only to have him vomit them into our faces again and again till
he died. The priest came back and looked at him.

"Poor fool!" he said to him, but to me and my companions he said: "YOU
sent him to Hell."

Ah! What a power that was, but while I rejoiced in it I was not glad
enough. He could have conquered had he only willed it. I knew he was
my master long before I mastered him.

His dissipated and drunken children fought for us beside his very bed.
I was wrenched from one hand to the other, falling upon the dirty
floor to be trampled on again and again. When the fight ended I was
torn and filthy, so that, patched and ugly, my next master sent me
back to the great capital to be changed; to have the artists work
again on me and restore my beauty. They did it well, but no artist
could give me new life.

Again I went forth and fell into the hands of a good man. I knew he
was good when I heard him speak to me and to those who were with me.
"God has blessed me," he said, "with riches and knowledge and
strength, but I am only His steward. This money like all the rest