CHAPTER VII
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 BaltasarVarela.
The abbot of Montblanch was glad to see Milord of Castle Blair in theland of the Scots. It was not a Christian country, he had been informed.
"Then your venerability has been misinformed," cried Rollo, who thirstedfor argument with the high ecclesiastic upon transubstantiation,consubstantiation, and all the other "ations" of his creed. But theAbbot parried him neatly at the very first assault, by an inquiry as towhat he thought of _transverberacion_.
At this Rollo gasped, and found immediate occasion to change the subjectto the famous wine of the Abbey, _el Priorato_, while the littleFrenchman beamed appreciation of his uncle's ecclesiastical learning,and that wise prelate twirled his thumbs about each other and discoursedat large, his shrewd unfathomable grey eyes now fixed on one and now onanother of the company, as though he were fathoming them severally withsome infallible mental gauge, by which he could calculate their measureof capacity to a hair.
Costly wines were on the table. Silver and cut glass of Venice sparkledon spotless cloth. Silent-sandalled lay brethren of the Order waited onthe Prior and his guests. Course after course was brought in, discussed,and removed. The Abbot, Don Baltasar Varela, himself ate little. Hewatched his guests' appetites, however, with manifest interest, anddirected 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 detectedthat the chief part of his attention was given to the young man, RolloBlair, and that the Prior, with a gently subtle smile, kept murmuring tohimself at each quick retort and flash of repartee.
"'Fiery as a Scot' indeed! A true proverb! This fellow is the man wewant, if so we can pay his price. The others----"
And Don Baltasar shrugged his shoulders slightly and contemptuously, ashe glanced from the broad stolid features of John Mortimer of Chorley tothe bright volatile countenance of his nephew Etienne, Count of SaintPierre--though, as we know, in so doing he did much injustice to two menvery brave after their kind, albeit their kind was not that for whichthe Prior of Montblanch happened to be presently on the outlook.
Rollo never emptied his glass (and he did so frequently) but one ofAbbot Baltasar's eyelids quivered, and the glass was immediately filledagain.
Thus supplied with inspiration the stream of the youth's conversationflowed steadily. His tones rose till they dominated the table. Hisvocabulary expanded, and as he had learned his Castilian in strangeplaces, his occasional freedom of expression bore somewhat heavily uponthe lay brothers, who, fearful of the watchful grey eye of theirsuperior, dared not so much as to smile behind their hands.
As Rollo's tongue loosened and his heart enlarged, the Prior with atwitch of his thumb indicated that the doors were to be closed, andturned again to give yet graver and more courteous attention to theconversation 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 bladethan any ever forged at Toledo--as I, Rollo Blair, stand ready to affirmand make good upon any man every day of the week!"
"I agree," said John Mortimer, "'tis better than my only razor, which isan infernally bad piece of metal, and not fit to scrape a hog with!"
"And _I_ agree," sighed Etienne, "because the remainder of my life Ihave resolved to devote to contemplation upon holy things. _Vade retrome, 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 hischain.
"Since Friday night, I presume?" Again began the fateful questioning, atwhich Mortimer kicked Rollo severely under the table. The poor noviceand martyr to monarchial principles flushed visibly. He was afraid ofwhat the mad Scot might say next. But at that very moment of dangerRollo curbed his tongue. He would not let the name of little Concha passhis lips. Still the novice in his uncle's presence was game tooexcellent to let slip easily.
"Contemplation!" he laughed aloud, "you will, you say, pass your days incontemplation. The relics of the saints will serve you from this dayforth, most gentle penitent. Why, man, you should go straight toCologne. They have the bones of eleven thousand virgins there, I amtold. These might chance to serve you some while!"
"Speaking of relics," said the abbot, rising, to prevent furtherawkwardness of discourse, "there is a midnight celebration which it ismy duty to attend, but do not let that disturb you from finishing yourwine. Son Hilario, I absolve you from attendance, that you may keepthese friends of yours in company. When you are weary, touch this bell,and Father Anselmo, my confessor, will show you the treasures andreliquaries of the Abbey--the former, alas! now scanty, since the visitof your compatriots, Messire Etienne, who came in the year eight, withtheir unhallowed melting-pots. But there are as many relics as ever,praise be to the saints--mostly stones. There is never any lack ofstones at Montblanch, though sometimes we poor anchorites of the Virginmay 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 headand a rustle of flowing robe.
"But the wine--the wine! You have forgotten the wine!" cried JohnMortimer, suddenly remembering his purpose in coming to Montblanch.
"_Ma foi!_" exclaimed Brother Hilario, "has the Englishman not yet hadenough! I have heard of how these islanders drink, but this passescredit."
"Ay, it cowes Kirkcaldy!" cried Rollo. "He is indeed a maisterfu'drinker, this Englishman!"
"What?" queried the Frenchman, still mystified, and moving towards thedecanters. "Does he want more wine? How much would satisfy him, thinkyou?"
"I could take somewhere about sixty thousand gallons at present, and asmuch more in a week or two!" said Mortimer, pulling out his pocket-book.
The Frenchman looked at Rollo for enlightenment. Our insular measures ofcapacity 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 istrue. An Englishman bathes himself, and drinks the contents of his bathwhen 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 notso?"
The matter was explained.
"I can arrange that with my uncle," said Etienne, as soon as he fullyunderstood 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 thePriorato! 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 himthere appeared a younger and more jovial monk, with small eyes thatperpetually twinkled, and a smile that seemed to catch itself up as witha 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 hisprobation, for he wore the lesser habit and carried in his hand a greatbunch of keys, which he tinkled freely, as if in that silent place hetook a certain pleasure in the sound.
Father Anselmo gazed with severe disapproval upon the rich appointmentsof the abbot's table, and austerely refused for himself and hiscompanion any refreshment beyond a glass of cold water.
But on the other hand the eyes of the keybearer perused with evide
ntlonging every salver and decanter. Whereupon the wild Scot, beingrestrained by no scruples, religious or otherwise, passed him first ofall a glass of wine behind his superior's back, which he drank at a gulpwithout a sound, his eyes all the while on the lean rounded shoulders ofthe father confessor.
A full bottle of wine followed and was instantly concealed beneath thenovice's long robe. A plate of grapes, half a dozen pears, a loaf ofwheaten bread, all were passed to him one by one, and as swiftly andsilently disappeared, none being bold enough to guess whither.
"By the Lord, I'll try him with a whole melon," muttered Rollo; "Ibelieve that, swollen as he is, he could stow away a keg of butter quitecomfortably."
But before he could put this jovial son of Peter the keybearer to thetest, Father Anselmo had gathered his robes ascetically about him, andsigned to the abbot's guests to follow him to the reliquary chamber.