“It is from the well of St. Dunstan,” said he, “in which, betwixt sun and sun, he baptized five hundred heathen Danes and Britons ⁠—blessed be his name!” And applying his black beard to the pitcher, he took a draught much more moderate in quantity than his encomium seemed to warrant.

“It seems to me, reverend father,” said the knight, “that the small morsels which you eat, together with this holy, but somewhat thin beverage, have thriven with you marvellously. You appear a man more fit to win the ram at a wrestling match, or the ring at a bout at quarterstaff, or the bucklers at a swordplay, than to linger out your time in this desolate wilderness, saying masses, and living upon parched peas and cold water.”