The vassals were assembled in the great hall of Shurland Castle; every cheek was pale, every tongue was mute, expectation and perplexity were visible on every brow. What would his lordship do? Were the recusant anybody else, gyves to the heels and hemp to the throat were but too good for him: but it was Father Fothergill who had said "I won't;" and, though the Baron was a very great man, the Pope was a greater, and the Pope was Father Fothergill's great friend—some people said he was his uncle.
Father Fothergill was busy in the refectory trying conclusions with a venison pasty, when he received the summons of his patron to attend him in the chapel cemetery. Of course he lost no time in obeying it, for obedience was the general rule in Shurland Castle. If anybody ever said "I won't," it was the exception; and, like all other exceptions, only proved the rule the stronger. The Father was a friar of the Augustine persuasion; a brotherhood which, having been planted in Kent some few centuries earlier, had taken very kindly to the soil, and overspread the county much as hops did some few centuries later. He was plump and portly, a little thick-winded, especially after dinner, stood five feet four in his sandals, and weighed hard upon eighteen stone. He was moreover a personage of singular piety; and the iron girdle, which, he said, he wore under his cassock to mortify withal, might have been well mistaken for the tire of a cart-wheel. When he arrived, Sir Ralph was pacing up and down by the side of a newly-opened grave.
"Benedicite! fair son,"—(the Baron was as brown as a cigar,) —"Benedicite!" said the chaplain.
The Baron was too angry to stand upon compliment.—"Bury me that grinning caitiff there!" quoth he, pointing to the defunct.
"It may not be, fair son," said the Friar; "he hath perished without absolution."
"Bury the body!" roared Sir Ralph.
"Water and earth alike reject him," returned the chaplain; "holy St. Bridget herself——"
"Bridget me no Bridgets! do me thine office quickly, Sir Shaveling; or, by the piper that played before Moses!——" The oath was a fearful one; and whenever the Baron swore to do mischief, he was never known to perjure himself. He was playing with the hilt of his sword.—"Do me thine office, I say. Give him his passport to heaven!"
"He is already gone to hell!" stammered the friar.
"Then do you go after him!" thundered the Lord of Shurland.