"In dulce jubilo-o-o,
Up, up, up we go-o-o."
The chapter was still sitting, stern and threatening.
The helpless monk was trundled in his barrow into the midst of the assembled fathers, to be tried and sentenced.
He had been caught, flagrante delicto, in a see-saw, drunk, riotous, and incapable. Nevertheless, Brother Jucundus was not disposed to view his case unfavourably. He looked round on the chapter with an affectionate glance from out of his watery eye, and the kindest, most winsome smile on his ruddy cheeks.
He was asked at once for his defence. He murmured, with a hiccup—
"In dulce jubilo-o-o."
The sentence was unanimous, and unfalteringly given. He was to be walled alive into a niche in the Priory cellar. The execution was to be carried into effect immediately.
As he was helped down the cellar stairs, some glimmer of his situation came in on the mind of Jucundus, and he sadly trolled out—