Father Benedict— (To the Abbot.)
The service of our Lord that knows no flaw,
Mountains or darkness or the voice of storms.
Last night—Fill it up.—Last night God's—There.—
Last night God's dread apparitor— (He drinks.)
Abbot— What's that?
Father Benedict— (Tasting his lips.)
Rumney, isn't it?
Abbot— Not that—
Father Benedict— (With mock seriousness.)
Isn't it?
Abbot— I mean—
Father Benedict—Pour me another, then; I'll taste again.
(Pierre pours.)
Abbot—You said God's dreadful summoner—
Father Benedict— Appeared.
And clapped his irons on old—