Of the Bishop’s Quandary
“There is a certain rough vigour in your tongue, Ryder,” said he, “and of scurril terms you have a most remarkable empire. But it sounds so strangely in my ears that it has fallen with something of a clap upon me. I will not criticise my host,” says he, “and to cross the habits of a life smacks of a meddling Anabaptist. But, an you must march in your full habit as a man, ‘Bishop’ were best left unsaid, Ryder, and ‘his lordship’ might with profit hold over till the blood runs cool. You will observe that I tuck up my apron for convenience.”
“You speak well, my lord,” I replied penitently, “and if you will be so good as shrive me for the sacrilege, split me, I’ll hold by your directions for the future.”
And here came the flasks with the innkeeper, which, uncorking, we dipped our noses in a rare old Burgundy. My lord held up his head and blinked at me good-humouredly across the table. “For all that I will not deny,” said he, “the value of such vigour.”
We drank again. The wine was rarely
23
