THE ABBOT'S DINNER
Rollo Blair kept his gasconnading promise. He dined with "his uncle,"
the abbot, that most wise, learned, and Christian prelate, Don Baltasar
Varela.
The abbot of Montblanch was glad to see Milord of Castle Blair in the
land of the Scots. It was not a Christian country, he had been informed.
"Then your venerability has been misinformed," cried Rollo, who thirsted
for argument with the high ecclesiastic upon transubstantiation,
consubstantiation, and all the other "ations" of his creed. But the
Abbot parried him neatly at the very first assault, by an inquiry as to
what he thought of _transverberacion_.
At this Rollo gasped, and found immediate occasion to change the subject
to the famous wine of the Abbey, _el Priorato_, while the little
Frenchman beamed appreciation of his uncle's ecclesiastical learning,
and that wise prelate twirled his thumbs about each other and discoursed
at large, his shrewd unfathomable grey eyes now fixed on one and now on
another of the company, as though he were fathoming them severally with
some infallible mental gauge, by which he could calculate their measure
of capacity to a hair.
Costly wines were on the table. Silver and cut glass of Venice sparkled
on spotless cloth. Silent-sandalled lay brethren of the Order waited on
the Prior and his guests. Course after course was brought in, discussed,
and removed. The Abbot, Don Baltasar Varela, himself ate little. He
watched his guests' appetites, however, with manifest interest, and
directed the servitors with almost imperceptible movements of his hand.
He appeared to favour each one of the three equally.
Yet an observer as detached as Don Baltasar himself would have detected
that the chief part of his attention was given to the young man, Rollo
Blair, and that the Prior, with a gently subtle smile, kept murmuring to
himself at each quick retort and flash of repartee.
"'Fiery as a Scot' indeed! A true proverb! This fellow is the man we
want, if so we can pay his price. The others----"
And Don Baltasar shrugged his shoulders slightly and contemptuously, as
he glanced from the broad stolid features of John Mortimer of Chorley to
the bright volatile countenance of his nephew Etienne, Count of Saint
Pierre--though, as we know, in so doing he did much injustice to two men
very brave after their kind, albeit their kind was not that for which
the Prior of Montblanch happened to be presently on the outlook.
Rollo never emptied his glass (and he did so frequently) but one of
Abbot Baltasar's eyelids quivered, and the glass was immediately filled
again.
Thus supplied with inspiration the stream of the youth's conversation
flowed steadily. His tones rose till they dominated the table. His
vocabulary expanded, and as he had learned his Castilian in strange
places, his occasional freedom of expression bore somewhat heavily upon
the lay brothers, who, fearful of the watchful grey eye of their
superior, dared not so much as to smile behind their hands.
As Rollo's tongue loosened and his heart enlarged, the Prior with a
twitch of his thumb indicated that the doors were to be closed, and
turned again to give yet graver and more courteous attention to the
conversation of his guest.
Master Blair's muse was the historical--and, alas! the autobiographical.
"Through his sword-arm I sent Killiecrankie, which is a better blade
than any ever forged at Toledo--as I, Rollo Blair, stand ready to affirm
and make good upon any man 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 Montblanch.
"_Ma foi!_" exclaimed Brother Hilario, "has the Englishman not yet had
enough! I have heard of how these islanders drink, but this passes
credit."
"Ay, it cowes Kirkcaldy!" cried Rollo. "He is indeed a maisterfu'
drinker, this Englishman!"
"What?" queried the Frenchman, still mystified, and moving towards the
decanters. "Does he want more wine? How much would satisfy him, think
you?"
"I could take somewhere about sixty thousand gallons at present, and as
much more in a week or two!" said Mortimer, pulling out his pocket-book.
The Frenchman looked at Rollo for enlightenment. Our insular measures of
capacity were naturally strange to him.
"About twenty thousand _arrobas_ at present might satisfy him, he says,
but he would like more in a week or two!"
Monsieur Etienne de Saint Pierre fell back, lax with astonishment.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he cried, "I never believed it before, but I see now it is
true. An Englishman bathes himself, and drinks the contents of his bath
when he is finished. It is that he may be ready for the twenty thousand
_arrobas_ of Priorato! But you are pleased to jest, gentlemen, is it not
so?"
The matter was explained.
"I can arrange that with my uncle," said Etienne, as soon as he fully
understood John Mortimer's purpose; "I understand something about wines,
for I grow some square leagues of vines on my lands in France. Moreover,
I will see to it that your friend does not pay too high a price for the
Priorato! And now for the relics! We have already wasted too much time."
He rang the bell and called in the abbot's confessor.
Father Anselmo was a gaunt, severe man, of more than the average height,
with black hair streaked with grey, and fixed and stony eyes. With him
there appeared a younger and more jovial monk, with small eyes that
perpetually twinkled, and a smile that seemed to catch itself up as with
a click each time that the stern gaze of Father Anselmo turned his way.
This monk was evidently only a novice, or a lay brother on his
probation, for he wore the lesser habit and carried in his hand a great
bunch of keys, which he tinkled freely, as if in that silent place he
took a certain pleasure in the sound.
Father Anselmo gazed with severe disapproval upon the rich appointments
of the abbot's table, and austerely refused for himself and his
companion any refreshment beyond a glass of cold water.
But on the other hand the eyes of the keybearer perused with evident
longing every salver and decanter. Whereupon the wild Scot, being
restrained by no scruples, religious or otherwise, passed him first of
all a glass of wine behind his superior's back, which he drank at a gulp
without a sound, his eyes all the while on the lean rounded shoulders of
the father confessor.
A full bottle of wine followed and was instantly concealed beneath the
novice's long robe. A plate of grapes, half a dozen pears, a loaf of
wheaten bread, all were passed to him one by one, and as swiftly and
silently disappeared, none being bold enough to guess whither.
"By the Lord, I'll try him with a whole melon," muttered Rollo; "I
believe that, swollen as he is, he could stow away a keg of butter quite
comfortably."
But before he could put this jovial son of Peter the keybearer to the
test, Father Anselmo had gathered his robes ascetically about him, and
signed to the abbot's guests to follow him to the reliquary chamber.