‘The curates, sir.’

‘What! all of them?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Been dining here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That will do.’

With these words a person entered—a middle-aged man, in black. He walked straight across the kitchen to an inner door, opened it, inclined his head forward, and stood listening. There was something to listen to, for the noise above was just then louder than ever.

‘Hey!’ he ejaculated to himself; then turning to Mr. Gale: ‘Have you often this sort of work?’

Mr. Gale had been a churchwarden, and was indulgent to the clergy.

‘They’re young, you know, sir—they’re young,’ said he deprecatingly.

‘Young! They want caning. Bad boys—bad boys. And if you were a Dissenter, John Gale, instead of being a good Churchman, they’d do the like—they’d expose themselves; but I’ll—’

By way of finish to this sentence, he passed through the inner door, drew it after him, and mounted the stair. Again he listened a few minutes when he arrived at the upper room. Making entrance without warning, he stood before the curates.

And they were silent; they were transfixed; and so was the invader. He—a personage short of stature, but straight of port, and bearing on broad shoulders a hawk’s head, beak, and eye, the whole surmounted by a Rehoboam, or shovel hat, which he did not seem to think it necessary to lift or remove before the presence in which he then stood—he folded his arms on his chest and surveyed his young friends—if friends they were— much at his leisure.

‘What!’ he began, delivering his words in a voice no longer nasal, but deep—more than deep—a voice made purposely hollow and cavernous— ‘what! has the miracle of Pentecost been renewed? Have the cloven tongues come down again? Where are they? The sound filled the whole house just now. I heard the seventeen languages in full action: Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Jud\ae\a, and Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in Egypt and in the parts of Libya about Cyrene, strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians—every one of these must have had its representative in this room two minutes since.’

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone,’ began Mr. Donne; ‘take a seat, pray, sir. Have a glass of wine?’

His civilities received no answer. The falcon in the black coat proceeded:

‘What do I talk about the gift of tongues? Gift, indeed! I mistook the chapter, and book, and testament: Gospel for law, Acts for Genesis, the city of Jerusalem for the plain of Shinar. It was no gift, but the confusion of tongues which has gabbled me deaf as a post. You apostles? What? you three? Certainly not. Three presumptuous Babylonish masons—neither more nor less!’

‘I assure you, sir, we were only having a little chat together over a glass of wine after a friendly dinner— settling the dissenters.’