"Everyman lyveth so after his owne pleasure, And yet of theyr lyfe they be nothynge sure. . . ." The Cardinal Archbishop, settling his dalmatic more comfortably, arranged himself to listen, his small brown face screwed into a mask of naive anticipation. Nobody else moved. Behind him the burgesses of Salzburg listened respectfully; his Abbot sat upon his right; in front of him his four sturdy bastards awaited God's next word in a glitter of green and silver buckram. That was in the year . . . Nothing much had changed. Once more sunset...
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