"
"It will be long ere it overflow the deep and solid skulls of my
countrymen," said Wilkin Flammock. "Our Flemish courage is like
our Flanders horses--the one needs the spur, and the other must
have a taste of the winepot; but, credit me, father, they are of
an enduring generation, and will not shrink in the washing.--But
indeed, if I were to give the knaves a cup more than enough, it
were not altogether amiss, since they are like to have a platter
the less."
"How do you mean!" cried the monk, starting; "I trust in the
saints the provisions have been cared for?"
"Not so well as in your convent, good father," replied Wilkin,
with the same immoveable stolidity of countenance. "We had kept,
as you know, too jolly a Christmas to have a very fat Easter. Yon
Welsh hounds, who helped to eat up our victuals, are now like to
get into our hold for the lack of them."
"Thou talkest mere folly," answered the monk; "orders were last
evening given by our lord (whose soul God assoilzie!) to fetch in
the necessary supplies from the country around!
"Ay, but the Welsh were too sharp set to permit us to do that at
our ease this morning, which should have been done weeks and
months since.
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