observing it in him
that I first discovered it in myself. One day it came out by chance that
I was of the Catholic religion. He became plunged in thought, at which I
was gently glad. Then suddenly--

"Odd-rabbit it! I'll be Catholic too!" he broke out. "You must teach me
it, Mr. Anne--I mean, Ramornie."

I dissuaded him: alleging that he would find me very imperfectly
informed as to the grounds and doctrines of the Church, and that, after
all, in the matter of religions, it was a very poor idea to change. "Of
course, my Church is the best," said I; "but that is not the reason why
I belong to it; I belong to it because it was the faith of my house. I
wish to take my chances with my own people, and so should you. If it is
a question of going to hell, go to hell like a gentleman with your
ancestors."

"Well, it wasn't that," he admitted. "I don't know that I was exactly
thinking of hell. Then there's the inquisition, too. That's rather a
cawker, you know."

"And I don't believe you were thinking of anything in the world," said
I--which put a period to his respectable conversion.

He consoled himself by playing for a while on a cheap flageolet, which
was one of his diversions, and to which I owed many intervals of peace.
When he first produced it, in the joints, from his pocket, he had the
duplicity to ask me if I played upon it. I answered, no; and he put the
instrument away with a sigh and the remark that he had thought I might.
For some while he resisted the unspeakable temptation, his fingers
visibly itching and twittering about his pocket, even his interest in
the landscape and in sporadic anecdote entirely lost. Presently the pipe
was in his hands again; he fitted, unfitted, refitted, and played upon
it in dumb show for some time.

"I play it myself a little," says he.

"Do you?" said I, and yawned.

And then he broke down.

"Mr. Ramornie, if you please, would it disturb you, sir, if I was to
play a chune?" he pleaded. And from that hour, the tootling of the
flageolet cheered our way.

He was particularly keen on the details of battles, single combats,
incidents of scouting parties, and the like. These he would make haste
to cap with some of the exploits of Wallace, the only hero with whom he
had the least acquaintance. His enthusiasm was genuine and pretty. When
he learned we were going to Scotland, "Well, then," he broke out, "I'll
see where Wallace lived!" And presently after, he fell to moralising.