When the reader considers that killing the king’s deer was a hanging matter in those days, he will not think these young Oxonians behind their modern successors in daring, or, as he may call it, foolhardiness.
Martin was hungry, the smell of the pasty was very appetising, and neither he nor any one else said any more until the pie had been divided upon six wooden platters, and all had eaten heartily, washing it down with repeated draughts from a huge silver flagon of canary, one of the heirlooms of Herstmonceux; and afterwards they cleansed their fingers, which they had used instead of forks, in a large central finger glass—nay, bowl of earthenware.
“More drink, I have a jorum of splendid sack in you cupboard,” cried their host when the flagon was empty.
“Now a song, every one must give a song.
“Hugh, you begin.”
I love to lurk in the gloom of the wood
Where the lithesome stags are roaming,
And to send a sly shaft just to tickle their ribs
Ere I smuggle them home in the gloaming.
“Just the case with this one we have been eating. But that measure is slow, let me give you one,” said Ralph.
Come, drink until you drop, my boys,
And if a headache follow,
Why, go to bed and sleep it off,
And drink again tomorrow.
Martin began to fear that the wine was suffocating his conscience in its fumes—and said:
“I must go now.”