"But is he fit?" asked Iola. "To me he seems hardly sober."
"Oh fit enough," answered Chartley. "With daily tipplers a certain portion of good wine is needful to sharpen their senses. That gives them wit which takes away the wits of other men; and he is not likely to find more drink in the forest unless he apply to the pure stream.--Hark ye, good master piper. Tell me how much discretion is left in that noddle of yours?"
"Enough to prevent me running my head against a post, or leading another into a ditch," answered the piper. "Now, good my lord, did I not come down the stairs, from the little turret into the court-yard, with every stone step as frail and moveable as the rounds of ambition's ladder?"
"And thou art trustworthy, methinks," said Chartley, in a musing tone.
"Else have I drunk many a butt of good liquor to no purpose," replied the piper.
"How should that make thee trustworthy?" demanded the young lord.
"Because the liquor was sound and honest, my lord," replied the piper; "and as by this time it must have penetrated every part, I should be sound and honest too. Moreover, it was best half drunk in secret, so that secrecy's a part of my composition also."
"Well, I will trust thee," replied Chartley, "and if thou wilt win a gold angel, thou shalt have the means of doing so."
"I will not debate upon the question long," said Sam, starting up. "I am always ready to go upon a pilgrimage, and far readier to worship a gold angel than a painted saint. Let me see, six stoups, at one shilling and two pence the stoup, would be--soul of my body, there's drink for a week in a gold angel."
"There, there, cease your calculations," cried Chartley; "first win the angel, and then use it discreetly afterwards."