Ivanhoe

When they had reached the little moonlight glade, having in front the

reverend, though ruinous chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well

suited to ascetic devotion, Wamba whispered to Gurth, "If this be the

habitation of a thief, it makes good the old proverb, The nearer the

church the farther from God.--And by my coxcomb," he added, "I think it

be even so--Hearken but to the black sanctus which they are singing in

the hermitage!"

In fact the anchorite and his guest were performing, at the full extent

of their very powerful lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was

the burden:-"Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,

Bully boy, bully boy,

Come, trowl the brown bowl to me:

Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,

Come, trowl the brown bowl to me."

"Now, that is not ill sung," said Wamba, who had thrown in a few of his

own flourishes to help out the chorus. "But who, in the saint's name,

ever expected to have heard such a jolly chant come from out a hermit's

cell at midnight!"

"Marry, that should I," said Gurth, "for the jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst

is a known man, and kills half the deer that are stolen in this walk.

Men say that the keeper has complained to his official, and that he

will be stripped of his cowl and cope altogether, if he keeps not better

order."

While they were thus speaking, Locksley's loud and repeated knocks had

at length disturbed the anchorite and his guest. "By my beads," said the

hermit, stopping short in a grand flourish, "here come more benighted

guests. I would not for my cowl that they found us in this goodly

exercise. All men have their enemies, good Sir Sluggard; and there be

those malignant enough to construe the hospitable refreshment which I

have been offering to you, a weary traveller, for the matter of three

short hours, into sheer drunkenness and debauchery, vices alike alien to

my profession and my disposition."

"Base calumniators!" replied the knight; "I would I had the chastising

of them. Nevertheless, Holy Clerk, it is true that all have their

enemies; and there be those in this very land whom I would rather speak

to through the bars of my helmet than barefaced."

"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."