“Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice,” answered Front-de-Boeuf, with a ghastly and constrained laugh. “The infidel Jew⁠—it was merit with heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonized who dip their hands in the blood of Saracens?⁠—The Saxon porkers, whom I have slain, they were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and of my liege lord.⁠—Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of plate⁠—Art thou fled?⁠—art thou silenced?”

“No, foul parricide!” replied the voice; “think of thy father!⁠—think of his death!⁠—think of his banquet-room flooded with his gore, and that poured forth by the hand of a son!”