own stairs the Grace was said, and the company was soon seated and ready for their mid-day meal.
“Our fare,” said Father Anselm pleasantly to Sir Godfrey, who sat on his right, “is plain, but substantial.”
“Oh—ah, very likely,” replied the Baron, as he received a wooden basin of black-bean broth.
“Our drink is——”
The Baron lifted his eye hopefully.
“——remarkably pure water,” Father Anselm continued. “Clement!” he called to the monk whose turn it was that day to hand the dishes, “Clement, a goblet of our well-water for Sir Godfrey Disseisin. One of the large goblets, Clement. We are indeed favoured, Baron, in having such a pure spring in the midst of our home.”
“Oh—ah!” observed the Baron again, and politely nerved himself for a swallow. But his thoughts were far away in his own cellar over at Wantley, contemplating the casks whose precious gallons the Dragon had consumed. Could it be the strength of his imagination, or else why was it that through the chilling, unwelcome liquid he was now drinking he seemed to detect a lurking flavour of the very wine those casks had contained, his favourite Malvoisie?
Father Anselm noticed the same taste in his own cup, and did not set it down to imagination, but afterwards sentenced Brother Clement to bread and water during three days, for carelessness in not washing the Monastery table-service more thoroughly.
“This simple food keeps you in beautiful health, Father,” said Mistletoe, ogling the swarthy face of the Abbot with an affection that he duly noted.