like a madman, staggered through the chancel, plunged into his stall with a crash, and rocked from side to side, gazing round with sanctimonious serenity, a buzz of pious horror filled the chapel. The monks whispered behind their breviaries:

‘ “What’s possessed the Father to-night?”

‘Twice the Prior struck his crosier on the floor to command silence. The choir continued the chants, but the responses were scarcely audible. In the middle of the Ave Verum, Gaucher raised himself in his stall and struck up in stentorian tones one of Aunt Bégon’s comic songs:

‘The congregation were scandalized. They rose in a body amidst shouts of “Turn him out, he has a devil!” The Canons crossed themselves in holy horror. The Prior waved his crosier frantically. Father Gaucher rocked and smiled, blissfully, unconscious of anything wrong. Two sturdy monks rushed forward and hustled the offender out at a side door, the delinquent struggling violently, and vociferating at the pitch of his voice:

‘The next day—that morrow which chasteneth the night before—was a day of penance.

‘At dawn the culprit is seen on his knees in the Prior’s oratory making a full confession with streaming eyes.

‘ “Monseigneur, alas, the Elixir had got me into its grip!” he said, beating his breast.

‘The Prior was not a stern man and was deeply moved at the penitent’s contrition.

‘ “My dear Gaucher, be calm! The little incident of last night, well, the impromptu outburst of song could not be ignored, but the morning sun dispels the mists of night. Really, there’s no harm done. The novices were away at the back, and probably thought some recondite ceremonial was being performed, one whose mystery had not yet been revealed to babes and sucklings. But between ourselves I should like to know the real facts. It was the Elixir, of course? Your tasting hand was rather heavy, perhaps? You were running the risk of all scientific pioneers. You’re another Brother Schwartz of gunpowder fame, the victim of your own invention. Be frank, my dear fellow; your life is precious, we owe you everything. Could not some tasting instrument be contrived?”

‘ “Monseigneur, a gauge can test the strength and temperature, but the subtle bouquet, the velvety softness elude all but the most exquisitely sensitive of human tongues.”

‘ “So far, so good. But—be frank—does your exquisitely sensitive tongue really relish the tasting process, or it is a compelling duty?”

‘ “Alas, Monseigneur,” confessed the much-tried penitent, “on the last two evenings the bouquet, the aroma were quite overpowering. I felt myself in the grip of the Tempter. Now I am resolved at any price to use only the testing-tube, even though the pearl should lose its fineness and connoisseurs reject an inferior brand.”

‘ “Stop!” cried the Prior excitedly, “do nothing rash! We must study our clients. Listen! Keep a watch on yourself. What would you consider a safe maximum dose? Fifteen drops? Make it twenty. Even after twenty the devil would need to rise very early in the morning to catch you napping. But as a precaution against eventualities, I dispense henceforth with your attendance at Evensong. You can observe it privately in the distillery. Now depart in peace, Reverend Father, and—count your drops.”