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