a cripple in a beggar's garb, a dwarfish, filthy creature with matted
hair, twitched his sleeve, and offered him a whetstone.

"Are you sharp, noble sir?" he asked, with a leer. "Are you sharp? It's
surprising how the edge goes on the bone. A cut and thrust? Well, every
man to his taste. But give me a broad butcher's knife and I'll ask no
help, be it man, woman, or child!"

A bystander, a lean man in rusty black, chuckled as he listened.

"But the woman or the child for choice, eh, Jehan?" he said. And he
looked to Tignonville to join in the jest.

"Ay, give me a white throat for choice!" the cripple answered, with
horrible zest. "And there'll be delicate necks to prick to-night! Lord,
I think I hear them squeal! You don't need it, sir?" he continued, again
proffering the whetstone. "No? Then I'll give my blade another whet, in
the name of our Lady, the Saints, and good Father Pezelay!"

"Ay, and give me a turn!" the lean man cried, proffering his weapon. "May
I die if I do not kill one of the accursed for every finger of my hands!"

"And toe of my feet!" the cripple answered, not to be outdone. "And toe
of my feet! A full score!"

"'Tis according to your sins!" the other, who had something of the air of
a Churchman, answered. "The more heretics killed, the more sins
forgiven. Remember that, brother, and spare not if your soul be
burdened! They blaspheme God and call Him paste! In the paste of their
own blood," he continued ferociously, "I will knead them and roll them