“And my brethren, certes we poor monks of Saint Benedict may learn much from these fiends; and first, from their hot and fiery tempers and bodies, we may be taught to say with Saint Ambrose:” 

Quench thou the fires of hate and strife
The wasting fevers of the heart.

At this moment a calf’s head was brought in, very tender and succulent, and the rest of the quotation was drowned in the clatter of plates and dishes.  At last the voice emerged from the tumult: 

“Which I have seen in these fens, whither Satan and his imps do often resort to cool themselves in these stagnant waters.  And first there be the misshapen, goggle-eyed goblins, with faces like the full moon, only never saw I the moon so hideous; these be the demons of sensuality, gluttony and sloth—­libera nos Domine, and then there be . . .”

The wine was handed round, wine of Gascony, where the friars of Michelham had vineyards; full drinking, rich-bodied red wine, brought in huge jugs of earthenware, and poured generally into wooden mugs.  Only the prior and subprior had silver goblets:  glass there was none.

Again the voice rose above the din: 

“Affect the fat soils of our marsh land, and there, maybe, find convenient prey amongst the idle and inebriate brethren who forget their vows, or the sottish loony who from the plough tail seek the ale house.  And moreover there be your fiends, long and slim, and comely in garb, with tails of graceful curve, and horns like a comely heifer.  Natheless their teeth be sharp and their claws fierce.  But they hide them, for they would fain appear like angels of light, yet be they the demons of pride and cruelty, first-born of Lucifer, son of the morning . . .”

Here the sweets and pastries came in, fruits of the abbey gardens, skilfully preserved, and cunning devices of the baker:  there was a church built of pie crust; a monk, baked brown and crisp, with raisins for his eyes, which, withal, filled his paunch, and, cannibal like, the good brethren ate him.  Finally, that they, the brethren, might not be without a memento mori, was a sepulchre or altar tomb, likewise in crust, and when the top was broken, a goodly number of pigeons lurked beneath, lying in state: 

“Which mop and mow, and chatter like starlings, but all, either naught in sense or naughty in meaning, oh these chattering goblins.  Be not like them, my brethren—­libera nos Domine.”

Here to those who sat at the upper board were next presented, by the serving brethren, dainty cups of hippocras, medicated against the damps and chills of the low grounds, or perchance the crudities of the stomach, or the cruel pinches of podagra dolorosa—­

“Ah! will you say that agues, rheumatics, and all the other afflictions which do befall the brethren be simply bred of stagnant water and foul drinking?  Nay, I say these hobgoblins give us them, and that even as Satan was permitted to afflict holy Job, so they afflict you.  But we have not the patience of Job; would we had!  Oh my brethren, slay me the little foxes which eat the tender grapes; your pride, anger, envy, hatred, gluttony, lust, and sloth, and bring forth worthy fruits of penance; then may you all laugh at Satan and his misshapen offspring until in very shame they fly these fens—­libera nos Domine.”