Wyso cast a sly sidelong glance at Reichenberg.
"You are very wise, my Lord, not to stint your bacon when you want to catch your mouse."
"Well, I should think a good broil of bacon would smell better to a sturdy old glutton like you, than the incense they will burn upon your coffin when fasting and prayer have brought your miserable life to a close."
Wyso slowly winked with one eye.
"Ah!" said he. "Is that what you should think?"
"Tell me, whose child is the young monk whom you call Donatus?"
Wyso's head suddenly fell down on his breast again, and he began to snore.
"Do not pretend to be asleep, I do not believe it. You are a cunning fellow; what, is the living not enough for you! I will give you a nag and a sledge, much finer than those of the Bishop of Chur, goat-skins for shoes, and white lamb-skins--what more shall I offer you? Only say what you desire, and you shall have it."
Wyso looked at him with a cunning glance.
"You are a very clever man, my Lord, but you do not know us yet! Do you really suppose that because I do not turn up my eyes, and drawl out the name of God, nor snap in two from sheer fasting and scourging when any one touches me like a starved cockchafer--do you suppose that I am a gluttonous booby who holds his conscience between his teeth, and can wash away all oaths, all honour, and all fidelity to the Church which he has served all his life long in one unwonted drinking bout? No, my Lord, clever as you are, we have not gone so far as that; you may catch mice with bacon, but not Benedictines; do you understand?" And from loud laughter he fell to coughing till every vein swelled, and he had to wipe his face with the corner of the tablecloth.