Then from behind the fire the voice began again. But this time I
understood it. The words were English. I was amazed, for I had
forgotten that I knew the wizard to be a white man.
"_Thus saith the Lord God_," it cried, "_Woe to the bloody city! I will
make the pile great for fire. Heap on wood, kindle the fire, consume
the flesh, and spice it well, and let the bones be burned_."
He poked the beast on the altar, and a bit of burning yellow fur fell
off and frizzled on the ground.
It was horrid beyond words, lewd and savage and impious, and
desperately cruel. And the strange thing was that the voice was
familiar.
"_O thou that dwellest upon many waters_," it went on again, "_abundant
in treasures, thine end is come, and the measure of thy covetousness.
The Lord of Hosts hath sworn by Himself, saying, Surely I will fill
thee with men as with caterpillars_...."
With that last word there came over me a flood of recollection. It was
spoken not in the common English way, but in the broad manner of my own
folk.... I saw in my mind's eye a wet moorland, and heard a voice
inveighing against the wickedness of those in high places.... I smelled
the foul air of the Canongate Tolbooth, and heard this same man
testifying against the vanity of the world.
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