he whole story being a tissue of absurdities and lies. The fugitive
Recollet friar was a fool, with something of the wit of harlequin, and he
thought that every man listening to him was a greater fool than himself.
Yet with all his folly he was not went in a certain species of cunning.
His religious principles were singular. As he did not wish to be taken
for a bigoted man he was scandalous, and for the sake of making people
laugh he would often make use of the most disgusting expressions. He had
no taste whatever for women, and no inclination towards the pleasures of
the flesh; but this was only owing to a deficiency in his natural
temperament, and yet he claimed for himself the virtue of continence. On
that score, everything appeared to him food for merriment, and when he
had drunk rather too much, he would ask questions of such an indecent
character that they would bring blushes on everybody's countenance. Yet
the brute would only laugh.

As we were getting within one hundred yards from the house of the devout
friend whom he intended to honour with his visit, he took back his heavy
cloak. On entering the house he gave his blessing to everybody, and
everyone in the family came to kiss his hand. The mistress of the house
requested him to say mass for them, and the compliant monk asked to be
taken to the vestry, but when I whispered in his ear,---

"Have you forgotten that we have already broken our fast to-day?" he
answered, dryly,---

"Mind your own business."

I dared not make any further remark, but during the mass I was indeed
surprised, for I saw that he did not understand what he was doing. I
could not help being amused at his awkwardness, but I had not yet seen
the best part of the comedy. As soon as he had somehow or other finished
his mass he went to the confessional, and after hearing in confession
every member of the family he took it into his head to refuse absolution
to the daughter of his hostess, a girl of twelve or thirteen, pretty and
quite charming. He gave his refusal publicly, scolding her and
threatening her with the torments of hell. The poor girl, overwhelmed
with shame, left the church crying bitterly, and I, feeling real sympathy
for her, could not help saying aloud to Stephano that he was a madman. I
ran after the girl to offer her my consolations, but she had disappeared,
and could not be induced to join us at dinner. This piece of extravagance
on the part of the monk exasperated me to suc