“Our profession!” exclaimed Euschemon.

“Art thou not a sorcerer?” demanded the voice.

“No,” replied Euschemon, “I am a saint.”

The warlock received Euschemon’s statement with much incredulity, but becoming eventually convinced of its truth—­

“I congratulate thee,” he said.  “The devil has manifestly taken a fancy to thee, and he never forgets his own.  It is true that the bishop is a great favourite with him also.  But we will hope for the best.  Thou hast never practised riding a broomstick?  No?  ’Tis pity; thou mayest have to mount one at a moment’s notice.”

This consolation had scarcely been administered ere the bolts flew back, the hinges grated, the door opened, and gaolers bearing torches informed the sorcerer that the bishop desired his presence.

He found the bishop in his study, which was nearly choked up by Euschemon’s bell.  The prelate received him with the greatest affability, and expressed a sincere hope that the very particular arrangements he had enjoined for the comfort of his distinguished prisoner had been faithfully carried out by his subordinates.  The sorcerer, as much a man of the world as the bishop, thanked his Lordship, and protested that he had been perfectly comfortable.

“I have need of thy art,” said the bishop, coming to business.  “I am exceedingly bothered—­flabbergasted were not too strong an expression—­by this confounded bell.  All my best exorcists have been trying all they know with it, to no purpose.  They might as well have tried to exorcise my mitre from my head by any other charm than the offer of a better one.  Magic is plainly the only remedy, and if thou canst disenchant it, I will give thee thy freedom.”

“It will be a tough business,” observed the sorcerer, surveying the bell with the eye of a connoisseur.  “It will require fumigations.”

“Yes,” said the bishop, “and suffumigations.”

“Aloes and mastic,” advised the sorcerer.

“Aye,” assented the bishop, “and red sanders.”

“We must call in Primeumaton,” said the warlock.

“Clearly,” said the bishop, “and Amioram.”

“Triangles,” said the sorcerer.

“Pentacles,” said the bishop.

“In the hour of Methon,” said the sorcerer.

“I should have thought Tafrac,” suggested the bishop, “but I defer to your better judgment.”

“I can have the blood of a goat?” queried the wizard.

“Yes,” said the bishop, “and of a monkey also.”

“Does your Lordship think that one might venture to go so far as a little unweaned child?”

“If absolutely necessary,” said the bishop.

“I am delighted to find such liberality of sentiment on your Lordship’s part,” said the sorcerer.  “Your Lordship is evidently of the profession.”

“These are things which stuck by me when I was an inquisitor,” explained the bishop, with some little embarrassment.