Then almost instantly he recovered himself.
"Well," he said, "we cannot save the Abbey, we cannot save the Holy Church from this desecration. I have cried 'Pater mi, si possibile est, transeat a me calix iste!' But now I say 'Verumtamen non sicut ego volo, sed sicut tu!'"
Then with a curious change of countenance (the difference between a priest's expression at the altar and in the sacristy when things have gone crossly) he turned to Rollo.
"Nevertheless," he said, "I do not deny that to you we owe all thanks and gratitude. Perhaps some day you shall be repaid!"
When Rollo looked round the saturnine priest had disappeared. His host and he were alone. The Abbot poured out the coffee.
"You will take some of our famous liqueur," he said, calmly and graciously as ever. "The receipt has been in the possession of the Abbey for well-nigh a thousand years."
It seemed a pity that so many things which had lasted a thousand years should come to an end on the twentieth day of the month. Meantime, however, he imitated the nonchalance of the Abbot. The liqueur was not to be despised.
Rollo held out his glass scarcely knowing what he did. The Abbot poured into it a generous portion of the precious fluid. It was of the keen cold green known to painters as viridian—the colour of turnip leaves with the dew on them.
Don Baltasar drew a glass towards him across the table.
"I am no winebibber," he said, "my vows do not allow of it. But I will give you a toast, which, if you permit me, I will drink with you in the pure wine of the flint."