“On the feast of St. James and Jude; oft before, and since, too, without provocation; and, lastly, on Monday se'nnight.”
“Why, thou strangely perverse varlet, dost thou say it was I who beat thee?” demanded the accused friar.
“Ay, truly, most respected Father Nicodemus.”
“Dost thou dare to repeat it? I am amazed at thy boldness;—or, rather, thy stupidity; or, perhaps, at thy loss of memory. Know, thou naughty hind, it was thyself who cudgelled thee! Didst thou not know that if thou wert to vex a dog he would snap at thee?—or hew and hack a tree, and not fly, it would fall on thee?—or grieve and wound the feelings of thy ghostly friend Father Nicodemus, he would cudgel thee?—Did I rouse myself into a rage? Did I call myself a thief?—Answer me, my son; did?”
“No, truly, Father Nicodemus.”
“Did I threaten, if I were not a son of Holy Mother Church, to kick myself out of thy house? Answer me, my son; did I?”
“No, truly, Father Nicodemus.”
“Am I less than a dog, or a tree? Answer me, my son; am I?”
“No, truly, Father Nicodemus; but, truly, also—”
“None of thy buts, my son; respond to me with plain ay or no. Didst thou not do all these things antecedent to my breaking thy sconce?”