“Pray, have a seat, Sir Parlane, I will summon wine and food, for you have ridden through the night and no doubt are hungry and needs must break your fast, please, let me take your cloak and hat, would you like me to help you with your boots? what can I tempt you with? just say the word and it is yours, do you wish a wench, or a serving-boy? We have some sweet Novices, still with the fresh bloom of youth upon their cheeks – upon my word, upon all their cheeks indeed - and all that we have is yours, but you know that my dear friend, oh, my dear sir, I do apologise for that presumption, I am your servant and will do whatever I can to aid and succour you . . . . .” and MacFarlane, tired with the creature's sycophantic servility, but also in need of a theriac after his long and hard ride from Edinburgh, said simply: “a wench for me to canoodle, a girl-child for Doubleday, no more that twelve, you know his tastes, send the wench to me here and give Dominic a closet for his benefit, and stop wringing your hands man, get on with it and then we will complot what to do with this little problem you have created!” and the simpering Abbot, his face having been almost purpurous through his fear, now slowly returning to it's more usual rubicund, in relief that Sir Parlane's fury seemed to have abated for the nonce, scurried off to do his bidding!