University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE OATH.

At daybreak the ensuing morning the monk and
his guide were full five leagues from the monastery
of St. Claude, and pursuing their journey at a rapid
rate through a dense forest, along a road which led
to a hamlet of a few cottages, situated on the eastern
bank of the Chaudiere. As the morning
dawned the cold became more intense, increased
by a sharp wind that rose with the sun; and as
the travellers gained the brow of a hill, from which
they caught a view of the distant hamlet, it became
so severe that its effect upon any portion of the
skin exposed to its penetrating influence was like
that of fire.

The cautious guide was so completely enveloped
in his furs that there remained scarcely a crevice
for his vision, choosing rather that the animal he

rode should be left to his own instinct for pursuing
the path than that his person should suffer by needless
exposure. The monk, incautious, and evidently
less experienced in the severities of a Canadian
winter, as they descended the hill lifted his
visor to survey the far-extended prospect of wood,
vale, and river before him. He immediately cried
out with pain, experiencing, as the piercing wind
touched his cheek and forehead, a burning sensation,
as if his skin had been exposed to the hot blast
of a sirocco. Following the example of his guide,
he enveloped his face in the furs, repeating the
language of Milton in describing the abode of Satan:

“The hamlet thou didst see from the hill aback
be where we'll get fresh nags,” growled the guide
through his furred hood, as they reached the plain
on which the hamlet was situated, and were riding
along under the protection of the forest. Not receiving
any answer, he rode to the side of the
monk, who had kept in advance, and continued, in
the tone of one who wished to be companionable,

“By St. Claude o' the island! a fire and a cup
o' wine would be none the worse for thee or I.
Faith, sir, my voice sticks to my jaws.”

“Vox faucibus hœsit,” said the monk in reply;
“this frost makes your speech classical Jacques;
and that, too, without the knowledge of your wits,
I'll be sworn! But Virgil was a peasant like yourself,
and why may not the same base earth that has
once yielded gold yield gold again?”

“Anan, father!” slowly responded the stolid
peasant, “I know not what thou sayst; tho' an'
thou do speak about this here land, then I can tell
'un never better soil was ploughed than be in this

plain. But, most worshipful, I'se not over wise in
holy things; and, by thy leave, as thou didst but
now swear by thyself, may I ask 'un if or no it be
a deadly sin, worthy o' purgatory, to make oath by
one's self? not that thou canst so sin, holy father,
or the church vicaires; no, the saints forbid! It
were a good thing to be a savoury priest, and swear
betimes. Save us! the godly Father Etienne rippeth
out oaths on occasion like a very Turk.
Canst tell me, most worshipful, if't be a deadly sin
or no?”

“What may be your especial motive, honest
Jacques, in seeking to be instructed in so weighty
a matter?” asked the monk, gravely.

“Hark ye! holy priest,” answered Jacques, in a
lower voice, whipping up his jaded steed, and riding
closer to the monk's ear, “I would give the best
sheep, save the old wether, o' the last year's droppin',
and a fat gobbler to boot to roast for thy Christmas
dinner, if thou wouldst give me dispensation
to swear roundly by my beard without fear o' the
pains o' purgatory.”

“Ha, Jacques, is it so? I fear the devil is tempting
thee to sin,” said the monk, solemnly; “thou
needst, rather, that I should appoint fasts and penance
for the good of thy soul.”

“Na, na! seven thousand saints forbid,” he answered,
hastily, and devoutly crossing himself;
“but it were a brave circumstance to swear stoutly
when one is with his mates. Wilt take the sheep
and fat gobbler, father?”

“Alas, my son! wouldst thou corrupt the church?
Thy speech savoureth of mammon. Surely Beelzebub
hath possessed thee!”

“Hout, na, most worshipful! but 'tis just thus,”
responded Jacques, with more animation than he
had yet evinced; “I go to mass every Sabbath-day,

keep saints' day and holy day, pay my tithe of
grain, like a seigneur, to the vicaires (saving hay
and potatoes, which holy church asketh not), confess
on Newyear's eve, as I hope to do the next one,
with help o' the good Virgin; nor do I take oath,
save by St. Claude, or the Virgin, or the saints,
and such like holy and worshipful oaths, 'gainst
which there can be found no scripture, saith porter
Homfroy, who is learned in holy things, tho' there
be a commandment, he hath told me, 'gainst forswearing
by one's self or the hairs of one's beard.
It were a brave oath for a proper man, father, this
swearing by one's beard!”

“Thou sayst well, Jacques! 'twere a most valiant
oath, a gallant, and, withal, a fierce oath. But
wherefore, save in its fitness for thy manhood,
wouldst thou fortify thy speech by an oath so truculent?”

“Methinks, most worshipful, if I could swear
stoutly by my beard when I get back among my
mates, they'll no longer let me keep i' the corner
or shove me out o' the way, as if I be not a human
being and a lad o' mettle, like that loud-swearing
Luc Giles, who swears by his beard like a trooper,
or even a worshipful priest, bidding me do this and
bidding me do that, with a ripping oath that makes
the blood run cold to my fingers' ends; and, maybe,
if I am not quick enough to suit his humour,
comes a knock on the head, and he but a ploughman
like myself! But it comes of swearing by his
beard; so fearful 'tis to hear him, father!”

“But if there be such valiancy in this oath thou
speakst of, worthy Jacques,” observed the monk,
“what should hinder thee from using a weapon
thou hast seen so formidable in the mouths of others?
Trust me, Jacques, that fellow's courage lieth altogether

in his beard, as thou hast heard the strength
of Samson did in his hair.”

“By St. Claude, most worshipful!” replied
Jacques, with more confidence in his tone, “thou
sayst truly. I would,” he added, looking on all
sides cautiously, and lowering his voice, “I would
not be afraid to make oath he had a chicken's liver.
Wilt give me dispensation, father?”

“Why ask it, my son? I don't believe this same
Luc Giles hath received it?”

“He?” exclaimed Jacques, in a tone of contempt;
“not unless he got it from the devil. He
is devil-born, father, fearing neither God nor man,
and mocks at holy things. He did only yesterday
say,” continued Jacques, crossing himself with holy
horror, “that there was no part of the true cross
to be found; and that, if all the pieces said to be of
the true cross were put together, they would build
a church as big as a cathedral.”

“Sacrilegious unbeliever and heretic!” exclaimed
the monk.

“So I told him, and he gave me a buffet on the
cheek, and bid me begone for a drivelling papist!
If thou wilt give me this dispensation, most worshipful,”
said Jacques, perseveringly returning to
the subject of his application, “by the holy St.
Claude, an' if I do not swear by my beard in the
face of that cock o' the roost, Luc Giles, when
next he bids me for an ass do this, and for a runt
do that! ay, and look at him fiercely in such a
fashion that he shall go fling his oaths at other cattle,
then call me coward, that's all.”

“Then a good round oath by thy beard will
make this cock o' the roost, whose spurs have
goaded thy valiant spirit, cut his own comb?”

“Ay, will it, most worshipful,” replied the belligerantly-minded
Jacques, with confidence in his tone.

“Then, honest Jacques, swear by thy beard till
it be gray, and I will warrant thee dispensation from
purgatory if thou take oath by each particular
hair,” replied the monk, spurring forward his tired
horse; and adding, as they trotted into the hamlet
which they had beheld before them for some time,
“here, now, is our resting-place; practise, if thou
wilt, thy magic oath a little on the inmates of yonder
hostelry, that we may speedily get food and
fresh horses.”

“By my beard! will I,” responded Jacques,
stoutly; “and see thou, most worshipful, if they
stir not their clumsy limbs to good purpose.”

Thus speaking, he applied whip and spur to the
flanks of his pony, and, throwing himself off before
the door of the inn, held the bridle of the monk's
horse while he dismounted, and then began to call
lustily upon the inmates.

“Hola, ho! hola! will ye make a holy man
wait all day in the cold, while ye are toasting your
shins before a good fire? Come forth, I say,” he
continued, hammering away at the door with the
butt of his whip, “or, by my beard! ay, by each
particular hair of my beard, will I break down thy
crazy door. Stir thee, stir thee! dost hear me take
oath by my beard, and movest not? Luc Giles
would stir thy stumps an he swore at thee as he
hath done at me. Ho! hola, ho!”

While he thus shouted, battering the door between
every pause, an old woman in a dark plaid mantelet
lined with fur, a stuffed petticoat, gay moccasins,
and a particoloured headdress, such as is
worn by the female peasantry of Lower Canada,
and resembling, as well as their other apparel, the
costume of the peasantry of Normandy, opened the
door and confronted the travellers.

“Father, thy blessing!” she asked, reverently

crossing her wrinkled forehead and courtesying
as her eye fell on the figure of the monk; “enter,
and welcome. Cowl and cassock, though they
seldom bring or leave a silver cross in a wayside-inn,
leave a holy one, which is better in these godless
times, when heretics rule the land. What!”
she exclaimed, in a very different key, as the
monk, passing by her to the fire, left exposed, in
full view, the form of the redoubtable Jacques,
who, on the first symptoms of an intention to remove
the latch of the door from within, discreetly
placed the monk's person between his own and
the anticipated danger, for Jacques had travelled
this road before, and knew with whom he had to do;
“what, is't thou, thou brainless fool, who beat
at a lone woman's door as if thou wert a foraging
voltigeur, and swearing so loudly, too, by thy weazen-faced
beard? Mercie! one would believe thou
hadst one. The blessed Virgin spare thee what
little wit thou hast, Jake,” she added, more mildly;
“but thou beest cold. Come in, come in, and
warm thee, poor helpless body! Jean will take
thy nags, and I will see what I can cook up for
thine and the father's appetite, for the cold morn
has, no doubt, given it edge enough. But, Jake,”
she whispered in the ear of the guide as he crossed
the threshold, “on what message travels the holy
man so early and at such speed, for thy nags smoke
as if thou hadst not spared spur?”

“A brave monk, and a most worshipful, by my
beard, mother Alice,” replied Jacques, in a patronising
tone, but with the straightforward simplicity
of a firm believer in what he uttered; “he goeth to
the great capital to shrive the pope's sublime holiness,
as Homfroy calleth him.”

“Out upon the fool,” exclaimed the dame, indignantly;
“who told thee that round lie? Dost not

know, thou heathen, that the pope lives over the
salt sea, and, at need, can shrive himself? Who
gave thee such dolt's broth for thy gullet?”

“By my beard,” responded Jacques, in defence,
“so said the worshipful Father Etienne. He bid
me, too, to guide him to Father Ducosse, and to
tell thee, dame Alice, thou must give thy son Jean's
ploughing-nags for the road, and take mine. I'll
have them safe back in thy stalls by the morn.”

“Hoit! and does he think I'm to lose a day's
work o' the nags for naught? Did the father give
thee silver, lad?” inquired the dame, with professional
care of her own interest.

“Didst ever know a priest give coin, mother?
He bid me tell thee thou shouldst have absolution
for thy life's sins when he next rides this way, an
thou properly do his bidding. And, if thou dost
ask him, old mother, he'll give thee leave to swear
by thy beard.”

“I'd pull thy fool's beard, an Heaven had given
thee one, thou brainless idiot,” cried the old dame,
in the height of her indignation, conscious that
her chin would have done better credit to Jacques's
oath than his own scantily-sown beard could have
done; “I know not if thou art more fool than knave!
But in, in with thee! Thou shalt have the nags, if
'twere only to be rid of thee,” she said, in a mood
between good-nature and ill-humour. “'Tis time
the father had somewhat to break his fast.”

Their meal, which she hastily prepared, was
eaten with rapidity and in silence. The fresh
beasts were brought to the door, and, resuming
their furs, which they had laid aside as they seated
themselves at the table, the travellers once more
mounted their horses. The monk, as he rode past
the door, bestowed with his solicited blessing a

piece of money upon the hostess, accompanying it
with a compliment on her fare.

“Mercie!” she cried, casting her eyes with astonishment
upon his religious gown as he trotted
off, followed by Jacques; “he must be the holy
pope himself, to give good silver with such a free
hand. It's not the way o' the ordinary fathers I've
met with in my day. I've lived threescore years
and better, kept open hostel fourteen o' them come
Christmas, and never, till now, did I see the colour
o' priests' coin; by the same token, they have often
seen the colour o' mine. Well, 'tis good ringing
silver,” she concluded, dropping it on the stone step
of the door before closing it, “and I'll keep it for
luck.”

The monk and his attendant, mounted on fresh
horses, now rode rapidly forward, their road still
winding along the banks of the Chaudiere, which
were bordered for many miles with larches, oaks,
sycamores, elms, and cedars, some of them of im
mense size, and many retaining their dark mantles
of evergreen, of which even winter could not rob
them. Others, stripped of their summer foliage,
flung abroad their scraggy and unsightly limbs,
striking emblems of that desolation which winter,
like an exulting conqueror, spreads over the smiling
face of nature. The region through which they
rode was diversified by extensive pasture-lands and
well-stocked farms in a high state of cultivation;
and, as they proceeded, it became more populous.
Here and there a church tower rose in the distance,
hamlets and farmhouses became more frequent,
and on all sides the characteristic signs of a populous
country were visible. The scenery constantly
varied in its character, and often called forth expressions
of admiration from the traveller, who frequently
paused, breathing his horse the while, to

gaze upon its sublime or picturesque features.
At one time, the perspective combinations of the
view changing with every mile they advanced, they
wound through a deep gorge, worn by the river,
here too wild and unruly to be confined by the
grasp of winter, and pouring with velocity through
its contracted bed, its surface broken into numerous
cascades. At another time they skirted the
base of lofty cliffs, wooded to their summits, and
towering in savage grandeur above their heads.
At another they ambled through a pleasant lane,
bordered by fruit trees, with the white cottage of
the habitans dispersed at intervals along their
route; and now they traversed a narrow dell shut
in by hills cultivated to their tops, or some secluded
vale, in which contentment and domestic peace
seemed to have taken up their abode. The river,
raging among rocks or tumbling in cascades, wild
with overhanging cliffs, or embellished with beautiful
islands, was a feature in every change of the
panorama. Even where its placid course was arrested,
as it meandered through some interval, by
the frost of the preceding night, its surface was as
transparent as when, bearing the breast of the wild
fowl or the skiff of the fisherman, it glided along
between banks of summer foliage.

About an hour before noon, without having met
with any obstacle or seen scarcely a human being,
save occasionally a bucheron cleaving his winter's
fuel in the forest, a few peasants labouring on
their farms, a female or a group of children peeping
through the windows of the closely-shut cabins,
they arrived in sight of a stone house situated on
the side of a hill facing the south.

“You be my journey's end, father,” said Jacques,
pointing to the habitation, “tho' if't be thine or no,
thy worshipful wisdom knoweth best. By my

beard! father, the nags smell the fodder, and move
brisker the latter end o' the way than at the outset.”

Indeed, the horses, with characteristic instinct,
seemed to be equally aware, with Jacques, that
they were approaching their journey's end, or,
at least, a baiting-place; for, when the house appeared
in sight they pricked up their ears, and set
off at a vigorous pace, which they kept up until
they arrived at the place of their destination. The
house before which the wearied travellers drew up
was a square stone edifice, two stories high, with
a single wing, and surrounded by a piazza. A light
portico protected the front entrance in winter and
shaded it in summer. It was separated from the
road by a court, and accessible by a gravelled walk
bordered by young evergreens, among which were
the pine, hemlock, and hackamatack, or red larch.

Dismounting at the gateway of the courtyard,
the traveller approached the dwelling, leaving the
horses in charge of Jacques. Ascending the portico,
he knocked at the door with a good will, to
which his half frozen condition and impatience of
delay contributed not a little. His summons was
answered by the creaking of a bolt, and the next
moment the appearance of a middle-aged man in
the open door. He was attired in a dress half
clerical, half laical, such as Catholic priests are
wont to wear in their own houses. His visage
was thin and cadaverous, and his frame large and
bony. His countenance wore a mild and benevolent,
yet indolent expression, while a twinkling
gray eye beneath shaggy brows betrayed humour
and intelligence.

“Bénédicité!” he said, saluting the monk with
grave politeness; “enter, brother, and share our
genial fire, for that, I see, thou needst most;
meanwhile,” he added, with the ready hospitality

of the Canadian clergy, “I'll have thee food prepared,
and see thy beasts safely housed. 'Tis a
bitter day to be abroad. Winter hath come upon
us manibus pedibusque, as the Latin hath it, which
is to say, with tooth and nail; but it becometh me
not to paraphrase the tongues to thee, erudite brother,
albeit the habit of holding converse daily with
the specimen of Eve's kind, who ruleth my domestic
matters, leadeth me to do it oftentimes incontinently;
but, scitè ac munditer condit cibos, sayeth
Plautus, which, in the vernacular, signifieth that she
is a good cook. Her skill thou shalt try anon, as
I perceive she hath already spread the board for
the meridian repast.”

“Reverend and learned curé,” replied the monk,
whom, while he was speaking, the host had ushered
into a well-heated room, the agreeable temperature
of which was preserved by a large fire blazing
in the chimney and a stove placed in the centre,
“I honour the wisdom of your selection in so
nice and difficult a matter as the choice of a cook or
coquus as much as I respect your learning. While
I do justice to her culinary talents, which, I doubt
not, do infinite credit to your judgment, I will acquaint
you with the cause of my intrusion into your
domicilium.”

The monk, who had intuitively caught and chimed
in with the humour of his host during the progress
of the meal—which, in passing, be it remarked, was
in every respect unexceptionable—related to him so
much of his object as was necessary to ensure his
co-operation and present aid in forwarding him in
security on his way; this was further ensured
through the influence of the chevalier's letter, which
he at the same time gave him.

“Me hercule! worthy juvenis, or youth,” exclaimed
the curé, when he had completed the pe

rusal of the letter, “thou hast begun young to go
forth to the wars. But Saint David slew Goliath—
thou knowst the Vulgate, I doubt not, wherein the
story is related at length?—and thy years, peradventure,
may likewise do honour to the valiant man of
war who sent thee on this perilous message. But,
touching this epistle from brother Etienne,” he
said, looking over the letter once more, and then
carefully folding it up, “I reply in the words of
Tullius Cicero, `Dum lego, assentior.' Thou shalt
be forwarded on thy journey forthwith, for the
business thou hast in hand requireth diligence.
The saints bring about that for which I long have
wearied them, even the restoration of our church's
dignity and power in the land, and among the rulers
thereof. But thou wilt not ride now, my son,” he
said, seeing his guest rise from the table and prepare
to resume his travelling apparel; “all too
soon, all too soon after eating.

saith the school-rhyme, which, in the vernacular,
hath been rendered,

“Verily, young cavalier or brother—for thou art
the one or the other—as I look either on thy quick
eye and gallant bearing, or upon the cowl and
gown, which, I cannot but observe, thou wearest
after an ill and awkward fashion, I fear it is a
scandal for the church's vestments to be put to such
unseemly uses,” he continued, sighing, and crossing
himself with the wing of a chicken, with which
his teeth had been busy while he was speaking.
“Verily thou must not leave me yet,” he added, wiping
his lips with a napkin, and pledging his guest
in a cup of mild wine; “I will first teach thee the

scientia popinæ, or the art of concocting savoury
messes, known and esteemed by the ancients, as
thou mayst learn on reference—”

“Pardon me, learned curé,” interrupted the
monk, enveloping his head, as he spoke, in his fur
bonnet, “I would gladly be your pupil in this honourable
science, seeing that the generous repast
I have but now partaken of bears testimony to its
utility; but, if it be possible, I must be on horseback
within the hour, as my next post is twelve
leagues off, and I desire to be there before morning.
Therefore, father, you cannot better please me, or
aid the cause you have at heart more, than by forwarding
me on my journey at once. A fleet horse
and a trusty guide were more acceptable than an
abbot's feast.”

“Thou shalt have both, Deo volente, my son,”
said the curé, promptly, his naturally indolent mind
receiving impetus from the spirit of the youth; and
laying his knife and fork down on his plate with a
sigh, he rose and left the room. In a short time
he returned, and said,

“I have saddled my own equus or steed for thee,
my son, and sent to a worthy dame, one of my parishioners,
to borrow another; a beast, though of less
comeliness of form, of equal mettle; him the good
woman's son will ride. The boy is but an untamed
cub, and will exercise thy patience. Nathless,
he will conduct thee to the convent of St.
Therese, from which place thou wilt obtain another
guide to the St. Lawrence.”

In the course of half an hour, the lad destined
to take the place of Jacques, who, be it here recorded,
had feasted sumptuously with the “coquus
or cook,” came into the room. He was about fifteen
years of age, remarkably small in stature, with a
snub nose, given to upturning, lively, twinkling, mischievous

gray eyes, one of which was marvellously
asquint, straight yellow hair, and a red freckled
face, the expression of which was mingled intelligence
and cunning. His manners were forward,
and indicated self-possession above his years. He
was rolled up in fur tippets and muffs till he appeared
as broad as he was long. He entered the
room whisking his riding-switch about, and without
doffing his fur bonnet, which was made of a
foxskin with the brush hanging down his back, in
a shrill voice and with a swaggering air, looking
from a corner of his eye at the monk, he addressed
the curé.

“This, then, be the priest, Father Duc, I'm to
ride with to St. Therese? The devil help me, if
he gabble as much Latin as thou, father, there will
be but little wit spoken on the road.”

“Chut st, chut st! Zacharie Nicolet, with thy
malapert tongue; thou art but a young pup to bark
so fiercely,” cried the curé, forgetting his Latin in
his displeasure.

“And thou art a toothless hound, which can
neither bark nor bite,” retorted the lad, with spirit.

“Habet salem; the lad hath the true Attic on
his tongue,” said the good-natured curé, whose anger
was never very durable, at the same time turning
round to the monk and nodding with a smile
of approbation; “if I could have him aneath my
thumb a while, to teach him the humanities and the
golden tongues, he might, peradventure, do honour
to my instructions; as it is, he is, I opine, but
game for the gallows.”

Zacharie, who did not relish this speech, was
about to reply with some pertness, when the monk,
fixing upon him his piercing eyes with a steady
gaze until he quailed beneath them, said sternly,

“A truce, boy, to this rudeness, and know better

the respect due to age. If you are to be my
guide to St. Therese, mount and ride; and if that
saucy tongue be not more civil on the way, you
will find you have to deal with a hound, to use your
own figure, which can both bark and bite.”

The boy, whose natural acuteness of observation
led him to estimate properly the ludicrous points
in the character of the simple-minded curé, although
incapable of appreciating, at the same time, the
excellent qualities of his head and heart, had wit
enough to know, from his stern eye and voice, that
the stranger was a man of different metal, and
that he might, perchance, endanger his personal
comfort by presuming to trifle with him. He
therefore left the room somewhat crestfallen, and,
mounting his horse at the gate, awaited the appearance
of the monk, who remained behind to reward
the services of the faithful Jacques, bargain with
him for the purchase of the furs he had loaned him,
and, at his request, bestow upon him his parting
blessing, confirming with it, in full, the grant of dispensation
for which he had petitioned on the journey.

“Thou'lt see, most worshipful,” said Jacques,
stroking his chin and looking straightforward with
a fierce aspect, “when next thou comest our way,
how bravely I'll swear by my beard! I shall not
sleep the night for thinking on't. If Luc Giles
don't take his fish to another market, then call me
jack-fool. So good-e'en to ye, father,” he continued,
lifting his bonnet as the monk mounted his
horse, “and the saints send ye on the way to the
worshipful pope ere he die. It would be an awful
circumstance for the great pope to die in his sins!”
he added, devoutly crossing himself.

“God assoilzie him!” ejaculated the pious curé,

mechanically, without any very definite intelligence
whom his prayers were to benefit.

“Father,” added Jacques, while assisting the
traveller to adjust his stirrups, and covering his feet
with the fur of his capote, “keep a tight rein on
thy mare, and a tighter one on that Satan's brat,
Zacharie Nicol. If thou wouldst keep him in his
place, swear roundly at him by thy beard, or by
mine own, an thou likest, seeing thine is but young,
and he will keep in his proper paces, I'll warrant
me. But, most worshipful,” he added, in a low
tone of voice, taking the rein of the monk's horse
as he was about to ride off, “give not Nick the
dispensation for—”

“What art thou nicking at there in the father's
ear, thou long-eared ass? I'll switch thy beardless
chaps for thee if thou hinder the priest's journey,”
shouted the boy, whose quick ears caught this sacrilegious
abbreviation of his name.

The confounded ex-guide immediately released
his grasp on the bridle, while the monk, bidding
farewell to him and his reverend host, rode briskly
forward past his youthful Mercury, who, before
galloping after him, turned his body half round in
the saddle and shook his whip at the curé, crying,
in his peculiarly shrill voice,

“If thou wilt have a scholar to teach thy Latin
to, Father Duc, thou hast an ass standing beside
thee whom thou mayst teach the tongues, as asses
have been taught to speak ere now.”

“Profane and thankless adolescentulus,” ejaculated
the curé, looking after the boy for an instant
with mingled astonishment and indignation, “ita
vertere seria ludo, the which meaneth,” he added,
turning to the no less shocked Jacques, whom he
surveyed closely for an instant, as if the hint of the
departing Zacharie had not been altogether lost,

and he was estimating his capabilities for receiving
the honours which the lad had so unaccountably
despised, “which meaneth, my son, the making
a jest of sacred things.”

“By my beard!” swore Jacques, after the form
of his successor had fairly disappeared in a winding
of the road, “if I had the limb o' Beelzebub by
the nape o' the neck, an I wouldn't make him think
Luc Giles's claws griped his weasand, may I never
more make oath by my beard!”

Thus delivering himself of his indignation,
Jacques followed the curé into his dwelling, where
we shall, for the present, leave him, either to be
duly inducted into the rudiments of the humanities
by the learned priest, or into the elements of cookery
by the specimen of mother Eve he retained in
his household, as the mental or physical propensities
of the pupil should predominate.