CHAPTER X.

What ho, my jovial mates! come on! we'll frolic it Like fairies frisking in the merry moonshine, Seen by the curtal friar, who, from some christening Or some blithe bridal, hies belated cell-ward-- He starts, and changes his bold bottle swagger To churchman's pace professional, and, ransacking His treacherous memory for some holy hymn, Finds but the roundel of the midnight catch. _Old Play._ The stride of the Udaller relaxed nothing of its length or of …