“There is Malvoisia sack,” said the man in black, “and partridge, and beccafico.”
“And what do you say to high mass?” said I.
“High mass!” said the man in black; “however,” he continued, after a pause, “I will be frank with you; I came to be so; I may have heard high mass on a time, and said it too; but as for any predilection for it, I assure you I have no more than for a long High Church sermon.”
“You speak à la Margutte?” said I.
“Margutte!” said the man in black, musingly. “Margutte?”
“You have read Pulci, I suppose?” said I.
“Yes, yes,” said the man in black, laughing; “I remember.”
“He might be rendered into English,” said I, “something in this style:—
“‘To which Margutte answered with a sneer,
I like the blue no better than the black,
My faith consists alone in savoury cheer,
In roasted capons, and in potent sack;
But, above all, in famous gin and clear,
Which often lays the Briton on his back,
With lump of sugar, and with lymph from well,
I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.’”
“He! he! he!” said the man in black; “that is more than Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron.”