Of the Bishop’s Quandary
its limits. “’Fore Heaven,” says I to myself, “I will see this fine courage topple down, if I keep sheep by moonlight[1] for it.” I had never a stomach for Mother Church, but this damned ugly lump was come near to turn me parson. I leaned over and tapped him on the knee. He opened his eyes with an air of weariness, and fastened them upon me with a faint gesture of apology.
“I fear I have been rude enough to fall asleep,” says he.
“Indeed,” I answered sharply, “’tis ill manners, as you may see, to split through a gentleman’s discourse so lightly. I did myself the honour to begin you my history.”
“You must forgive me,” said the Bishop, with that wave of his hand. “Pray continue. To be sure—your history.”
“Hark’ee,” said I roughly. “You profess yourself a vicar of God. Damn and shrive—these be the transactions of your precious trade! You hold a knife to poor mortal throats, and scare ’em with hell-fires, as I
- ↑ A pretty pastoral euphemism for “hang in chains.”
7
