“I don’t doubt you speak the tongue of the English equally well,” he ventured.

“Ywis,” the giant replied without faltering. “Herkneth, this is the point, to speken short and plain. That ye han said is right enough. Namore of this, enough of that. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal. Instead of showing off our eloquence, let’s get down to business, for time is short. I didn’t follow you for pleasure, but was led by a pressing need.”

“Indeed? And what is that dira necessitas based on, might one ask?”

“Look closely at me and answer with hand on heart—would you like to look as I do?”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Scharley replied with disarming frankness. “But you harbour a grudge towards the wrong person, friend. You owe your appearance directly to your father and mother. And indirectly to the Creator, although much seems to belie that.”

“I owe my appearance to you,” said Samson, completely ignoring the mockery, “and to your idiotic exorcisms. You’ve stirred up some serious trouble, boys. It’s time to look truth in the eye and begin to contemplate how to correct what you’ve done, and to think about making amends to the one you’ve made problems for.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” stated Scharley. “I swear on everything dear to me, meaning my old cock, Je jure ça sur mon coullon.”

“Such eloquence, such oratory,” commented the giant, “but not an ounce of acumen. Do you really not understand what happened as a result of your sodding spells?”

“I…” Reynevan uttered. “I understand that… during the exorcism… something happened.”

“Well, well,” said the giant, looking at him, “the triumph of youth and a university education—judging from your colloquialisms, probably acquired in Prague. Yes, yes, young man. The incantations and spells may have had side effects. The Bible says: ‘the prayer of the humble pierceth the clouds.’ Well, it did.”

“Our exorcisms…” whispered Reynevan. “I sensed it. I sensed a sudden inflow of the Power. But is it possible—”

“Certes.”

“Don’t act like a child, Reinmar,” said Scharley calmly. “Don’t let him beguile you. He’s mocking us. He’s posing as a devil accidentally called forth by our exorcism, a demon summoned from the beyond and transplanted into the bodily shell of Samson Honey-Eater, the idiot of the priory. He’s pretending to be a genie freed from a lamp by our spells. What have I forgotten to mention, stranger? Who are you? King Arthur returning from Avalon? Ogier the Dane? Barbarossa coming from Kyffhausen? The Eternal Wandering Jew?”

“Why stop there?” Samson crossed his mighty forearms on his chest. “After all, you, in your ineffable wisdom, know who I am.”