“Eh!” I gasped again in sad bewilderment.
“It must have been very cold up there,” mused the blessed Laurence: then after a pause he asked suddenly, “Where is the dog?”
“What dog?” I enquired; and then aside, “Can he have heard anything of Ponto, my Newfoundland? Impossible!”
“Why, the dog who has been with you so many ages.”
I could only stare.
“The dumb witness of your crime.”
“Witness of my crime!” I echoed, with an inward hysterical feeling as though I wanted to laugh wildly.
“Yes, of gathering sticks on the Sabbath.”
“Sticks—Sabbath!” echoed I: “Why, who do you take me for?”
“The man in the moon, of course,” replied the blessed Laurence demurely: “I need hardly say that your accent, your manner of talking, and your eccentricities have convinced me and other Christians that you can be no other than that celebrated individual, whose release has at length been effected by the prayers of the faithful, and who has come now to Rome to obtain absolution at the hands of the Bishop.”