an every day of the week!"

"I agree," said John Mortimer, "'tis better than my only razor, which is
an infernally bad piece of metal, and not fit to scrape a hog with!"

"And _I_ agree," sighed Etienne, "because the remainder of my life I
have resolved to devote to contemplation upon holy things. _Vade retro
me, Satana!_"

The Scot turned upon him like a flash.

"_You_ have renounced the world"--he queried--"did I hear you say?"

The Frenchman nodded. "And its vanities!" he agreed with a twirl of his
chain.

"Since Friday night, I presume?" Again began the fateful questioning, at
which Mortimer kicked Rollo severely under the table. The poor novice
and martyr to monarchial principles flushed visibly. He was afraid of
what the mad Scot might say next. But at that very moment of danger
Rollo curbed his tongue. He would not let the name of little Concha pass
his lips. Still the novice in his uncle's presence was game too
excellent to let slip easily.

"Contemplation!" he laughed aloud, "you will, you say, pass your days in
contemplation. The relics of the saints will serve you from this day
forth, most gentle penitent. Why, man, you should go straight to
Cologne. They have the bones of eleven thousand virgins there, I am
told. These might chance to serve you some while!"

"Speaking of relics," said the abbot, rising, to prevent further
awkwardness of discourse, "there is a midnight celebration which it is
my duty to attend, but do not let that disturb you from finishing your
wine. Son Hilario, I absolve you from attendance, that you may keep
these friends of yours in company. When you are weary, touch this bell,
and Father Anselmo, my confessor, will show you the treasures and
reliquaries of the Abbey--the former, alas! now scanty, since the visit
of your compatriots, Messire Etienne, who came in the year eight, with
their unhallowed melting-pots. But there are as many relics as ever,
praise be to the saints--mostly stones. There is never any lack of
stones at Montblanch, though sometimes we poor anchorites of the Virgin
may chance to lack bread."

As he spoke he looked about at the well-laden table, the bursting figs,
the bunches of purple grapes, the shining silver and snowy linen.

"_Benedicite_, good gentlemen!" he said, and went out with bowed head
and a rustle of flowing robe.

"But the wine--the wine! You have forgotten the wine!" cried John
Mortimer, suddenly remembering his purpose in coming to Montb