absolution."

"Bury the body!" roared Sir Robert.

"Water and earth alike reject him," returned the Chaplain; "holy St.
Bridget herself--"

"Bridget me no Bridgets!--do me thine office quickly, Sir Shaveling! or
by the Piper that played before Moses--" The oath was a fearful one;
and whenever the Baron swore to do mischief, he was never known to
perjure himself. He was playing with the hilt of his sword. "Do me
thine office, I say. Give him his passport to heaven."

"He is already gone to Hell!" stammered the Friar.

"Then do you go after him!" thundered the Lord of Shurland.

His sword half leaped from its scabbard. No!--the trenchant blade, that
had cut Suleiman Ben Malek Ben Buckskin from helmet to chin, disdained
to daub itself with the cerebellum of a miserable monk;--it leaped back
again;--and as the Chaplain, scared at its flash, turned him in terror,
the Baron gave him a kick!--one kick!--it was but one!--but such a one!
Despite its obesity, up flew his holy body in an angle of forty-five
degrees; then having reached its highest point of elevation, sunk
headlong into the open grave that yawned to receive it. If the reverend
gentleman had possessed such a thing as a neck, he had infallibly
broken it! as he did not, he only dislocated his vertebrae--but that
did quite as well. He was as dead as ditch-water!

"In with the other rascal!" said the baron--and he was obeyed; for