“Oh—oh!” said the monk, groaning, “my reins trouble me much: perhaps the wine may comfort me!” and the wine was brought.
“It is not of so rare a flavour as that which you sent to our reverend father,” said the monk, wiping his mouth with his long sleeve. “Hungary must be a charming place; is it far from hence? It joins the heretical,—I pray your pardon, it joins the continent of England, I believe?”
“Not exactly, Father; but whatever its topography, it is a rare country—for those who like it! But tell me of this Hermit of the Well. How long has he lived here? and how came he by his appellation? Of what country is he? and of what birth?”
“You ask me too many questions at once, my Son. The country of the holy man is a mystery to us all. He speaks the Tuscan dialect well, but with a foreign accent. Nevertheless, though the wine is not of Hungary, it has a pleasant flavour. I wonder how the rogues kept it so snugly from the knowledge and comfort of their pious brethren of the monastery!”
“And how long has the Hermit lived in your vicinity?”
“Nearly eight years, my Son. It was one winter’s evening that he came to our convent in the dress of a worldly traveller, to seek our hospitality, and a shelter for the night, which was inclement and stormy. He stayed with us a few days, and held some conversation with our father Abbot; and one morning, after roaming in the neighbourhood to look at the old stones and ruins, which is the custom of travellers, he returned, put into our box some alms, and two days afterwards he appeared in the place he now inhabits and in the dress he assumes.”
“And of what nature, my Father, is the place, and of what fashion the dress?”
“Holy Saint Francis!” exclaimed the Father, with a surprise so great that I thought at first it related to the wine, “Holy Saint Francis! have you not seen the well yet?”
“No, Father, unless you speak of the fountain about a mile and a quarter distant.”
“Tusk—tusk!” said the good man, “what ignoramuses you travellers are! You affect to know what kind of slippers Prester John wears and to have been admitted to the bed-chamber of the Pagoda of China; and yet, when one comes to sound you, you are as ignorant of everything a man of real learning knows as an Englishman is of his missal. Why, I thought that every fool in every country had heard of the Holy Well of St. Francis, situated exactly two miles from our famous convent, and that every fool in the neighbourhood had seen it.”