“And I should scorn,” continued his worship, “to write otherwise than in a fine Italian character to the master of a college, near in dignity to knighthood.”
William Shakspeare.
“Worshipful sir! is there no other way of communicating but by person, or writing, or messages?”
Sir Thomas.
“I will consider and devise. At present I can think of none so satisfactory.”
And now did the great clock over the gateway strike. And Bill Shakspeare did move his lips, even as Sir Thomas had moved his erewhile in ejaculating. And when he had wagged them twice or thrice after the twelve strokes of the clock were over, again he ejaculated with voice also, saying,—
“Mercy upon us! how the day wears! Twelve strokes! Might I retire, please your worship, into the chapel for about three quarters of an hour, and perform the service [108a] as ordained?”
Before Sir Thomas could give him leave or answer, did Sir Silas cry aloud,—
“He would purloin the chalice, worth forty-eight shillings, and melt it down in the twinkling of an eye, he is so crafty.”
But the knight was more reasonable, and said, reprovingly,—