“That I can see, thou abomination of Hell,” replied the Bishop in a remarkably gentle voice, full of priestly concern and contrasting both with the sense of his words and with his previous bellowing assault. And my Lord Bishop continued in the same mild tones:
“Hear me, Greene: the Lord in His wisdom and His unfathomable compassion has provided that should you repent – and confess – your descent to the burning pitch of Hell may be postponed, perhaps even for all eternity. We will not cut short the time you have for repentance here on earth.”
The only answer from Greene was a half-repressed, rumbling kind of laugh. I saw a spasm of fury cross Bonner’s face, but he had himself well under control. He stepped up to the miserable lump of maltreated flesh that was still twitching with silent laughter on the rotten straw and went on:
“I can see you have the constitution of an ox, Greene. The search for the truth with the instruments of torture has merely twisted your body a little, when others would already have rendered up their stinking souls to Satan. I hope to God that our barber, or even the physician if need be, can patch you up again. You can trust in my mercy as you have come to know my severity: This very hour you can leave this sty together with –” the Bishop’s voice throbbed with a most cordial, persuasive purr – “your fellow sufferer here, good Doctor Dee, your intimate companion.”
That was the first time the Bishop had taken the least notice of me. Now that he suddenly spoke my name I felt a shock run through me, as one who is rudely woken from some dream. For until that point it had seemed to me as if I was observing from a distance some flight of fancy, some play performed by the comedians that had nothing at all to do with my own fate. Now that was all over as the Bishop, gently but ruthlessly dragged me from my daydreaming onto the stage of this most cruel tragedy. If Greene confessed he knew me, I was lost!
But scarce had the sudden horror at my precarious situation set my heart pounding and the blood throbbing in my veins than the imperturbable Greene turned his face towards me with incredible composure and growled:
“A doctor? Here with me on this straw? – I thank thee for the honour, Brother Bishop. I thought thou hadst given me a tailor for company, one thou wouldst teach how fear makes the soul fly out at the breeches?”
Greene’s insults were so unexpected that they wounded me in my old pride and I leapt up in real anger – none of which escaped the cold, observant eye of Bishop Bonner. But straightway I perceived honest Greene’s intent and was filled with a great calm, so that I played my part in the comedy with great aplomb and responded to my cues from Greene or the Bishop with an apt response.
Although inwardly fuming that his panther’s leap had once more missed its prey, my Lord Bishop concealed his disappointment behind a snarling yawn that, indeed, recalled the baffled fury of a great cat.
“You are sure, then, you do not know this man, neither in person nor by reputation, my dear Bartlett?” the Bishop went on in cajoling tones. But Greene merely replied in a surly mumble:
“Would that I knew the chicked-livered poltroon, the milksop thou hast brought to my door, good Master Cuckoo. I would give much for my eyes to behold this whining cur precede me through thy flaming gate to Heaven – but that does not mean I will clutch any turd of a quacksalver to my bosom like thee, Cousin Bonner.”
“Still thy blasphemous tongue, thou son of Belial!” – the Bishop finally lost control of his temper and screamed at Greene as a threatening clash of weapons came from outside the cell door. “Pitch and wood are too good for thee, thou first-born of Beelzebub! Thou shalt burn at the stake on lumps of sulphur so thou shalt have a foretaste of the pleasures that await thee in thy father’s house!” the Bishop shouted, livid with fury and grinding his teeth so that the words could scarce come out. But Bartlett Greene gave a peal of laughter and started to swing wildly back and forth on his broken limbs; the mere sight of it made me flinch in horror. “Thou’rt mistaken, Brother Bonner,” he brayed. “Sulphur is nothing to me. The French have a use for sulphur baths such as would not come amiss for thee, neither, coz – – but listen, my son: in the place where thou shalt come when thy time is up, mere sulphur is counted as musk oil, or as balm of Arabia!”
“Confess, thou swine, thou demon,” Bishop Bonner flung back at him with a roar as of a lion; “confess that this John Dee is confederate in thy outlawry and murder or – – –”
“– or?” echoed the mocking voice of Bartlett Greene.
“The thumbscrews!” panted the Bishop, and warders and men-at-arms swarmed in. But Greene raised his racked body with a wild yell of laughter, proffered his right hand to the Bishop, then suddenly stuck the outstretched thumb between his teeth and bit it off at the root with one crunching snap of his mighty jaws and with a jeering cackle spat it into the horrified Bonner’s face, so that blood and spittle ran down from his cheeks onto his cassock. “There!” with a fearful shriek of laughter he roared, “there, screw that up your – – –” and a host of the most obscene imprecations cascaded over the Bishop, such that, even if my memory could retain the smallest part, yet my hand would refuse to write them down. In the main Greene was assuring the Lord Bishop,
