'Paul had met him at Kinnegad, where both had stopped to change horses. “A glass of sherry, my lord?” quoth Paul, with a most insinuating look.
'“No, sir, thank you,” was the distant reply.
'“A bowl of gravy, then, my lord?” rejoined he. '“Pray, excuse me,” more coldly than before.
'“Maybe a chop and a crisped potato would tempt your lordship?”
'“Neither, sir, I assure you.”
'“Nor a glass of egg-flip?” repeated Paul, in an accent bordering on despair.
'“Nor even the egg-flip,” rejoined his lordship, in the most pompous manner.
'“Then, my lord,” said Paul, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking him firmly in the face, “I've only to say, the 'onus' is now on you.” With which he stalked out of the room, leaving the chancellor to his own reflections.'
'Brethren, the saint!' cried out the prior, as he rose from the chair.
'The saint! the saint!'re-echoed from lip to lip; and at the same moment the door opened, and a monk appeared, bearing a silver image of St. Patrick, about a foot and a half high, which he deposited in the middle of the table with the utmost reverence. All the monks rose, filling their pipkins, while the junior of the order, a fat little monk with spectacles, began the following ditty, in which all the rest joined, with every energy of voice and manner:—