"Noble lord," he replied, "I am the notary, Basil, and come upon your
business."
"Maybe," said the voice, "but how know I that you have not been near
some case of foul sickness and will not bring it here?"
"Have no fear, lord; I have been waiting on the healthy, not on the
sick--a task which I leave to others who have more taste that way."
Then the door was opened cautiously, and from the room beyond it came a
pungent odour of aromatic essences. Basil passed in, shutting it quickly
behind him. Before him at the further side of the table and near to a
blazing fire stood Acour himself. He was clothed in a long robe and
held a piece of linen that was soaked in some strong-smelling substance
before his nose and mouth.
"Nay, come no nearer," he said to the clerk, "for this infection is most
subtle, and--be so good as to cast off that filthy cloak of yours and
leave it by the door."
Basil obeyed, revealing an undergarment that was still more foul. He was
not one who wasted money on new apparel.
"Well, man," said Acour, surveying him with evident disgust and throwing
a handful of dried herbs upon the fire, "what news now? Has my cause
been laid before his Holiness? I trust so, for know that I grow weary
of being cooped up here like a falcon in a cage with the dread of a
loathsome death and a handful of frightened servants as companions who
do nothing but drone out prayers all day long.
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