I worked him Sundays and all; he was going, Sundays, the same as week days, and it was no use to waste the power.
These shirts cost me nothing but just the mere trifle for the materials--I furnished those myself, it would not have been right to make him do that--and they sold like smoke to pilgrims at a dollar and a half apiece, which was the price of fifty cows or a blooded race horse in Arthurdom.

They were regarded as a perfect protection against sin, and advertised as such by my knights everywhere, with the paint-pot and stencil-plate; insomuch that there was not a cliff or a bowlder or a dead wall in England but you could read on it at a mile distance: "Buy the only genuine St.Stylite; patronized by the Nobility.
Patent applied for." There was more money in the business than one knew what to do with.
As it extended, I brought out a line of goods suitable for kings, and a nobby thing for duchesses and that sort, with ruffles down the forehatch and the running-gear clewed up with a featherstitch to leeward and then hauled aft with a back-stay and triced up with a half-turn in the standing rigging forward of the weather-gaskets.
Yes, it was a daisy.
But about that time I noticed that the motive power had taken to standing on one leg, and I found that there was something the matter with the other one; so I stocked the business and unloaded, taking Sir Bors de Ganis into camp financially along with certain of his friends; for the works stopped within a year, and the good saint got him to his rest.

But he had earned it.

I can say that for him.
When I saw him that first time--however, his personal condition will not quite bear description here.

You can read it in the Lives of the Saints.* [*All the details concerning the hermits, in this chapter, are from Lecky--but greatly modified.