"Ugh, I am weary of that incomparable holiness.

He hovers about to give me the St.
John's Cup, and would fain speed my passing.

But I do not die yet, good father.

There's life still in the old wolf." The monk in a bland voice spoke some Latin to the effect that mortal times and seasons were ordained of God.

The other stretched out a skinny hand from the fur coverings and rang a silver bell.