The sacred inscription ran, in our own tongue, "Old Tom Gin, Unsweetened." The monks bowed their heads in profound silence as the sacred thing was produced.

I caught Hilda's eye.

"For Heaven's sake," I murmured low, "don't either of you laugh! If you do, it's all up with us." They kept their countenances with admirable decorum.
Another idea struck me.

"Tell them," I said to the cook, "that we, too, have a similar and very powerful god, but much more lively." He interpreted my words to them.
Then I opened our stores, and drew out with a flourish--our last remaining bottle of Simla soda-water.
Very solemnly and seriously I unwired the cork, as if performing an almost sacrosanct ceremony.

The monks crowded round, with the deepest curiosity.