“God’s wounds, dost thou covet destruction,
thou maniac? It is The Boss!”
Now what a happy idea that was!—and so
simple; yet it would never have occurred to me.
I was born modest; not all over, but in spots; and
this was one of the spots.
The effect upon madame was electrical. It cleared
her countenance and brought back her smiles and all
her persuasive graces and blandishments; but nevertheless
she was not able to entirely cover up with them the
fact that she was in a ghastly fright. She said:
“La, but do list to thine handmaid! as if one
gifted with powers like to mine might say the thing
which I have said unto one who has vanquished Merlin,
and not be jesting. By mine enchantments I foresaw
your coming, and by them I knew you when you entered
here. I did but play this little jest with hope
to surprise you into some display of your art, as
not doubting you would blast the guards with occult
fires, consuming them to ashes on the spot, a marvel
much beyond mine own ability, yet one which I have
long been childishly curious to see.”
The guards were less curious, and got out as soon
as they got permission.
A ROYAL BANQUET
Madame, seeing me pacific and unresentful, no doubt
judged that I was deceived by her excuse; for her
fright dissolved away, and she was soon so importunate
to have me give an exhibition and kill somebody, that
the thing grew to be embarrassing. However, to
my relief she was presently interrupted by the call
to prayers. I will say this much for the nobility:
that, tyrannical, murderous, rapacious, and morally
rotten as they were, they were deeply and enthusiastically
religious. Nothing could divert them from the
regular and faithful performance of the pieties enjoined
by the Church. More than once I had seen a noble
who had gotten his enemy at a disadvantage, stop to
pray before cutting his throat; more than once I had
seen a noble, after ambushing and despatching his
enemy, retire to the nearest wayside shrine and humbly
give thanks, without even waiting to rob the body.
There was to be nothing finer or sweeter in the life
of even Benvenuto Cellini, that rough-hewn saint,
ten centuries later. All the nobles of Britain,
with their families, attended divine service morning
and night daily, in their private chapels, and even
the worst of them had family worship five or six times
a day besides. The credit of this belonged entirely
to the Church. Although I was no friend to that
Catholic Church, I was obliged to admit this.
And often, in spite of me, I found myself saying,
“What would this country be without the Church?”
