Father Cuddy waddled, as fast as cramped limbs could carry his rotund
corporation, to the gate of the monastery, where he loudly demanded
admittance.
"Holloa! whence come you, master monk, and what's your business?" demanded
a stranger who occupied the porter's place.
"Business--my business!" repeated the confounded Cuddy, "why do you not
know me? Has the wine arrived safely?"
"Hence, fellow," said the porter's representative in a surly tone, "nor
think to impose on me with your monkish tales."
"Fellow!" exclaimed the father, "mercy upon us that I should be so spoken
to at the gate of my own house! Scoundrel!" cried Cuddy, raising his
voice, "do you not see my garb--my holy garb?--"
"Aye, fellow," replied he of the keys, "the garb of laziness and filthy
debauchery, which has been expelled from out these walls. Know you not,
idle knave, of the suppression of this nest of superstition, and that the
abbey lands and possessions were granted in August last to Master Robert
Collan, by our Lady Elizabeth, sovereign queen of England, and paragon of
all beauty, whom God preserve!"
"Queen of England," said Cuddy; "there never was a sovereign queen of
England; this is but a piece with the rest. I saw how it was going with
the stars last night--the world's turned upside down. But surely this is
Innisfallen island, and I am the Father Cuddy who yesterday morning went
over to the abbey of Irelagh respecting the tun of wine.
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