“Not till you have blessed our meal for us, old father.”
The Prior raised his trembling hands. The other caught at them.
“Not that way. We ask the taster’s grace. It was a bargain.”
“Be seated, señor,” said the old man, with dignity. “I do not forget my obligations.”
He went round, bent and stiffly, taking a shred from each dish, a sippet dipped in the gravy.
“Bella premunt hostilia,” he expostulated. “Intestine wars invade our breast. What a task for our old digestion!”
His roguery pleased and reassured his company. They attacked the viands with a will. He never ceased to encourage them, going about the board with garrulous cheer.
“And ye come over the hills?” said he. “A hungry journey and a dangerous. It was the mountains, and the spirits of the mountains, that were alone invincible when the Moorish dogs overran all Spain—all but the mountains. The heathen crests were lowered there—rolled back in a bloody foam. Dear God! I’m old.”
“Not so ancient, father,” cried de Regnac, “but that good liquor will revitalize you. There remains the wine.”
“Ah me!” sighed the Prior; “must I?”