“First take off your glove, worthy brother,” answered the hangman. “Water should always be poured with the bare hand.”
The hermit shook his head, saying, “It is a vow.”
“Well, then, pour,” said the hangman.
Hardly had Orugix raised the glass to his lips when he set it down hastily, while the hermit drained his at a draught.
“By the Holy Grail! good hermit, what is that infernal stuff? I have not drank its like since the day that I came near drowning in my voyage from Copenhagen to Throndhjem. Truly, hermit, that is no water from Lynrass spring; it is salt water.”
“Salt water,” repeated Spiagudry, his terror increasing as he looked at the hermit’s glove.
“Well, well!” said the hangman, turning toward him with a loud laugh; “so everything alarms you, old Absalom,—even to the drink of a holy monk who chooses to mortify his flesh!”
“Alas, no, master! But salt water—There is but one man—”
“Come, come, you don’t know what you are talking about, sir doctor; your distress must be caused by your bad conscience, or else you despise our company.”
These words, uttered in a humorous tone, reminded Spiagudry that he must needs hide his fears. To mollify his much-dreaded host, he called his vast memory to his aid, and summoned up all the presence of mind which was left to him.