He walked to the cupboard where the bottle of wine was kept.  Perhaps it would be better to pour it back—­really better in the end.  They would be waiting dinner for him.  He knew that the bishop would be annoyed.  It might be better to pour it back.

Then all the force of dogma rose before him like a phoenix from the ashes of his lower nature.  This was consecrated wine!  He had consecrated it with his own hands at the altar of God, for one purpose and one purpose only—­to be consumed by those who believed in the body and blood of Christ.  To pour it back again into the bottle of unconsecrated wine—­that would be sacrilege!  Why had Mr. Windle been so narrow-minded about his foolish pledge of total abstinence?  How foolish some good people were!  How bigoted!  He felt assured that Mr. Windle was a good man; but again, there was no doubt about his being narrow-minded.  Ah, why did he not send some one!

Mr. Bishop walked to the door of the vestry that opened on to the little country lane.  He looked out.  There was no trace of the devout warden.  Only a man, carefully dressed, with black leather leggings encasing his legs from knees to the boot-tops—­seemingly the type of clerk in a country town—­was coming up the lane.  A thought flew into the clergyman’s head.  He beckoned to him.  The man quickened his steps and came up to the door.

In the space of two minutes, with nervous, hurried voice, the Rev. Samuel had told him of his predicament.  The man looked on amazed, but said nothing.

“Now, have you just come from Communion?” he asked at the conclusion of his explanation.

“Me?” said the man.  “No.”

“Then I must entreat you to let me read that part of the service to you—­I assure you it won’t take long—­that is necessitated by the taking of the wine.  You see I must institute you as a communicant.  You are of course a—­a Protestant?” he added in sudden afterthought.

“Me?” said the man.  “No.”

Mr. Bishop stood up dismayed.

“Not a Protestant?” he exclaimed in wonder.

“No, why should I be?  Nor anything else.  Don’t believe in it, ’specially if it can put gentlemen in such a position as you’re in now.  I’ll drink the wine for you if you like.  I see no harm in that.  I’ll drink it reverently too—­I don’t want to hurt your feelings.  But you can’t expect me to take it for granted that it ain’t nothin’ else but what it is—­just the juice out of the grape, don’t yer know.  You see, I know what I’m talking about.  I’m a chauffeur now, but I used to be in a brewery—­see?”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Bishop bitterly, sarcastically; “but you can be of no service to me.”  He retired, closing the door and saying “Thank you” again, in the same tone of voice.

When he found himself alone once more in the vestry he took another sip of wine.  The sentiments which that man had expressed were half rankling in his mind.  They made him feel careless, reckless.  He did not really think of what he was doing.  He took another sip—­it was most palatable—­and another—­it was certainly very good to the taste.  With the little food that he had taken that day, he felt it warm within him.  It was considerably more than half-finished now.  He waited again, and really he felt no bad effects.