“But that I shall do presently,” said the king.
“Ay,” said the abbot, “and your majesty shall do it too in the wine of which I have heard your majesty so much approve. Fetch another bottle, Ralpho.”
Ralpho brought it.—“I will pour for myself,” said the king; and taking the bottle, he poured about one-half of it into his cup; again named the name of Elen of Rosline with rapturous enthusiasm, and again as he put the cup to his lips, Mooly sprung up, snatched the cup from his hand, and dashed it on the floor more furiously than before, and then cowered at her master’s feet as if begging not to be struck.
“There is something more than ordinary in this,” said the king, “and I will have it investigated instantly.”
“There is nothing in it at all,” said the abbot. “Pardon me, sire; but it is a fault in your majesty, for which I have grieved, and often done penance myself. You are, and have always been a visionary, and nothing will ever wean you from it. You make idols of these two animals; they have sometime been taught a number of pranks, and for one of these would you augur aught against the monastery, your nobles, or your majesty’s own peace of mind?”
“Are you certain that is the genuine Old Malmsey wine, Ralpho?” said the king.
“I am certain, sire, it is the wine that was shown to me as such.”
The king poured out the remainder that was in the bottle. “Drink thou that, Ralpho,” said he, “and tell me if it be really and truly the genuine Malmsey.”