“Get thine iron pot on thy head then, friend Sluggard, as quickly as thy nature will permit,” said the hermit, “while I remove these pewter flagons, whose late contents run strangely in mine own pate; and to drown the clatter⁠—for, in faith, I feel somewhat unsteady⁠—strike into the tune which thou hearest me sing; it is no matter for the words⁠—I scarce know them myself.”

So saying, he struck up a thundering de profundis clamavi, under cover of which he removed the apparatus of their banquet: while the knight, laughing heartily, and arming himself all the while, assisted his host with his voice from time to time as his mirth permitted.

“What devil’s matins are you after at this hour?” said a voice from without.

“Heaven forgive you, Sir Traveller!” said the hermit, whose own noise, and perhaps his nocturnal potations, prevented from recognising accents which were tolerably familiar to him⁠—“Wend on your way, in the name of God and Saint Dunstan, and disturb not the devotions of me and my holy brother.”