a bland and benevolent smile, which became him wonderfully.

The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, and a person
with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed the hilarity of the
company. Sir Randal dropped his cup of wine; and Father Peter, the
confessor, incontinently paused in the midst of a profane song, with
which he was amusing the society.

"Holy Mother!" cried he, "it is Sir Roger."

"Alive!" screamed Sir Randal.

"No, my lord," Mercurius said; "Sir Roger is dead, but cometh on a
matter of business; and I have the honor to act as his counsellor and
attendant."

"Nephew," said Sir Roger, "the daemon saith justly; I am come on a
trifling affair, in which thy service is essential."

"I will do anything, uncle, in my power."

"Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt?" But Sir Randal looked very
blank at this proposition. "I mean life spiritual, Randal," said Sir
Roger; and thereupon he explained to him the nature of the wager.

Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius was playing all
sorts of antics in the hall; and, by his wit and fun, became so popular
with this godless crew, that they lost all the fear which his first
appearance had given them. The friar was wonderfully taken with him,
and used his utmost eloquence and endeavors to convert the devil; the
knights stopped drinking to listen to the argument; the men-at-arms
forbore brawling; and the wicked little pages crowded round the two
strange disputants, to hear their edifying discourse. The ghostly man,
however, had little chance in the controversy, and certainly little
learning to carry it on. Sir Randal interrupted him. "Father Peter,"
said he, "our kinsman is condemned for ever, for want of a single ave:
wilt thou say it for him?" "Willingly, my lord," said the monk, "with my
book;" and accordingly he produced his missal to read, without which aid
it appeared that the holy father could not manage the desired prayer.
But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish art, inserted a song in
the place of the ave, so that Father Peter, instead of chanting an hymn,
sang the following irreverent ditty--

"Some love the matin-chimes, which toll
The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far's the mid-day bell,
Which speaks the hour of dinner;
For when I see a smoking fish,
Or capon drown'd in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
Full glad I sing mine ave.