“It will ruin the procession,” muttered the canon.
“They certainly look as little like angels as need be,” interposed Jekyl, slyly.
“Sixty lamps and two hundred tapers are a scant allowance,” continued D'Esmonde.
“Darkness,—positive darkness!” ejaculated the canon; “ubi evasit pietas nostra?—what has become of our ancient faith?”
“The soldier, your reverence, wishes to see you immediately,” said a servant, entering in haste; “he fears that he is sinking fast.”
“The heavy dews of the morning are falling—can he not wait till the sun rises, Giuseppe?”
“You had better see him at once, canon,” whispered the Abbé.
“Oimè! oimè!” sighed the priest, “mine is a weary road—'potum meum cum fletu miscebam,'” added he, finishing off his champagne, “is it far from this?”
“Only to the boat-house, father,” said Lady Hester.
“Per mares et ignos! it's a good half-hour's walk,” growled he.