“Sir,” said the clergyman, advancing a little, “I pray your Majesty to convince me, by proof, of a reputed custom with our gallants, which is that, being to drink a lady’s health, the one that calleth shall cast into the flames some article of his attire, there to be consumed to her honour, and so shall demand of his company, by toasters’ law, that they do likewise.”
“Dod!” said the King, chuckling; “woss he speiring at? Drink man! drink and sacrifice, and I give my royal word that all shall follow suit, though it be with the wigs from our heads.”
The Doctor lifted his horn of ale and drained it.
“I toast Joan!” he cried.
“Joan!” they all shouted, laughing and hiccuping, and, having drunk, threw down their beakers helter-skelter.
The clergyman took one swift step forward; snatched up his small-clothes from the trestle; displayed them a moment; thrust them deep into the blazing coals, and, facing about, disrugged himself, and stood in his shirttails.
“I claim your Majesty’s word, and breeches,” said he.
A silence of absolute stupefaction befell; and then in an instant the kitchen broke into one howl of laughter.
In the midst, Charles walked stately to the table, sat down, and thrust out his legs.
“Parson,” said he, “if you had but claimed my hair. The honours lie with you, sir; take ’em.”