As they were deciphering the rude characters of this pious inscription, a village priest came down a high flight of steps from the parsonage near the church, and courteously saluted the strangers.  After returning the salutation, the mad Englishman, without preface, asked him how many natural children were annually born in the parish.  The question seemed to astonish the good father, but he answered it civilly, as he did several other questions, which Flemming thought rather indiscreet, to say the least.

“You will excuse our curiosity,” said he to the priest, by way of apology.  “We are strangersfrom distant countries.  My friend is an Englishman and I an American.”

Berkley, however, was not so easily silenced.  After a few moments’ conversation he broke out into most audacious Latin, in which the only words clearly intelligible were;

“Plurimum reverende, in Christo religiosissime, ac clarissime Domine, necnon et amice observandissime!  Petrus sic est locutus; ’Nec argentum mihi, nec aurum est; sed quod habeo, hoc tibi do; surge et ambula.’”

He seemed to be speaking of the fountain.  The priest answered meekly,

“Non intellexi, Domine!”

But Berkley continued with great volubility to speak of his being a stranger in the land, and all men being strangers upon earth, and hoping to meet the good priest hereafter in the kingdom of Heaven.  The priest seemed confounded, and abashed.  Through the mist of a strange pronunciation he could recognise only here and there afamiliar word.  He took out his snuff-box; and tried to quote a passage from Saint Paul;

“Ut dixit Sanctus Paulus; qui bene facit—­”

Here his memory failed him, or, as the French say, he was at the end of his Latin, and, stretching forth his long forefinger, he concluded in German;

“Yes;—­I don’t—­so clearly remember—­what he did say.”

The Englishman helped him through with a moral phrase; and then pulling off his hat, exclaimed very solemnly;

“Vale, domine doctissime et reverendissime!”

And the Dominie, as if pursued by a demon, made a sudden and precipitate retreat down a flight of steps into the street.

“There!” said Berkley laughing, “I beat him at his own weapons.  What do you say of my Latin?”

“I say of it,” replied Flemming, “what Holophernes said of Sir Nathaniel’s; ’Priscian a little scratched; ‘t will serve.’  I think I have heardbetter.  But what a whim!  I thought I should have laughed aloud.”

They were still sitting by the bronze fountain when the priest returned, accompanied by a short man, with large feet, and a long blue surtout, so greasy, that it reminded one of Polilla’s in the Spanish play, which was lined with slices of pork.  His countenance was broad and placid, but his blue eyes gleamed with a wild, mysterious, sorrowful expression.  Flemming thought the Latin contest was to be renewed, with more powder and heavier guns.  He was mistaken.