servant of God; therefore are you now the object of celestial wrath,
which will fall upon you. To whatever place you fly it will always
follow you, will seize upon you in every limb, even after your death,
and will cook you like a pasty in the oven of hell, where you will
simmer eternally, and every day you will receive seven hundred
thousand million lashes of the whip, for the one I received through
you."

"Ah! holy Father," said the wench, casting herself at the monk's feet,
"you alone can save me, for in your gown I should be sheltered from
the anger of God."

Saying this, she raised the robe to place herself beneath it, and
exclaimed--

"By my faith! monks are better than knights."

"By the sulphur of the devil! You are not acquainted with the monks?"

"No," said Perrotte.

"And you don't know the service that monks sing without saying a
word?"

"No."

Thereupon the monk went through this said service for her, as it is
sung on great feast days, with all the grand effects used in
monasteries, the psalms well chanted in f major, the flaming tapers,
and the choristers, and explained to her the _Introit_, and also the