"Roger Simeon, the necromancer!" sneered the grating voice. "A dealer in the diabolic arts and a worker of black magic! My word, all his foul power could not save him when the king's soldiers surrounded his cave and took him prisoner. He fled when the people began to fling cobble stones at his windows, and thought to hide himself and escape to France. Ho! Ho! His escape shall be at the end of a noose. A good day's work, say I."
He tossed a small bag on the table where it clinked musically.
"The price of a magician's life!" he boasted. "What say you, my sour friend?"
"I say," said he in a low powerful voice, "that you have this day done a damnable deed. Yon necromancer was worthy of death, belike, but he trusted you, naming you his one friend, and you betrayed him for a few filthy coins. Methinks you will meet him in Hell, some day."
He was a light sleeper as becomes a man who habitually carries his life in his hand.
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