“Hast no other head of the Doctor’s?” quoth Sir Thomas.
“Verily none,” replied Willy, “of the morning’s discourse, saving the last words of it, which, with God’s help, I shall always remember.”
“Give us them, give us them,” said Sir Thomas.
“He wants doctrine; he wants authority; his are grains of millet,—grains for unfledged doves; but they are sound, except the crying.
“Deliver unto us the last words; for the last of the preacher, as of the hanged, are usually the best.”
Then did William repeat the concluding words of the discourse, being these:—
“‘As years are running past us, let us throw something on them which they cannot shake off in the dust and hurry of the world, but must carry with them to that great year of all, whereunto the lesser of this mortal life do tend and are subservient.’”
Sir Thomas, after a pause, and after having bent his knee under the table, as though there had been the church-cushion, said unto us,—
“Here he spake through a glass, darkly, as blessed Paul hath it.”
Then turning toward Willy,—