CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
Cleanse the foul bosom of the perilous stuff
That weighs upon the heart.
MACBETH.
What betwixt cold and fright the afflicted Sacristan stood before his Superior, propped on the friendly arm of the convent miller, drenched with water, and scarce able to utter a syllable.
After various attempts to speak, the first words he uttered were,
“Swim we merrily—the moon shines bright.”
“Swim we merrily!” retorted the Abbot, indignantly; “a merry night have ye chosen for swimming, and a becoming salutation to your Superior!”
“Our brother is bewildered,” said Eustace;—“speak, Father Philip, how is it with you?”
“Good luck to your fishing,”
continued the Sacristan, making a most dolorous attempt at the tune of his strange compa
