Rene—Come, sing the matins, Simon, for the dawn—
Abbot—Don't think it is the wine I care for.
Father Benedict— Ha!
The cup, eh?—Take it.
(He hands the cup to Pierre and leads the ass back to one of the benches, upon which he climbs and stands fixing the saddle.)
Abbot— A while ago you said
God's dreadful summoner appeared.
Father Benedict— Yes.
(Pierre goes out.) Whoa!
Simon— (Following Pierre.)
Pierre.
Pierre—No.
Simon— Just a tiff.
Pierre— No, I say.