hen he sent out the courtiers
and sat long and talked much and blandly; but Hugh answered very
little, but shortly asked him to see to his and other bishops' wills and
commended Lincoln to his protection; but he despaired of John and would
not waste his beautiful words upon him. After the king, the archbishop
came several times, and promised also to do what he could for him. The
last time he came he hinted that Hugh must not forget to ask pardon from
any he had unjustly hurt or provoked by word or deed. No answer from the
bed! Then he became a little more explicit and said that he, Hugh's
spiritual father and primate, had often been most bitterly provoked, and
that really his forgiveness was most indispensible. The reply he got was
more bracing than grateful. Archbishops rarely hear such naked verities.
"It is quite true, and I see it well when I ponder all the hidden things
of our conscience, that I have often provoked you to angers. But I do
not find a single reason for repenting of it; but I know this, that I
must grieve that I did not do it oftener and harder. But if my life
should have to be passed longer with you I most firmly determine, under
the eyes of all-seeing God, to do it much oftener than before. I can
remember how, to comply with you, I have often and often been coward
enough to keep back things which I ought to have spoken out to you, and
which you would not well have brooked to hear, and so by my own fault I
have avoided offence to you rather than to the Father which is in
Heaven. On this count, therefore, it is that I have not only
transgressed against God heavily and unbishoply, but against your
fatherhood or primacy. And I humbly ask pardon for this." Exit the
archbishop!

Now his faithful Boswell gives elaborate details of Hugh's long dying,
not knowing that his work would speak to a generation which measures a
man's favour with God by the oily slipperiness with which he shuffles
off his clay coil. It was a case of hard dying, redoubled paroxysms,
fierce fever, and bloody flux, and dreadful details. He would wear his
sackcloth, and rarely change it, though it caked into knots which chafed
him fiercely. But, though the rule allowed, he would not go soft to his
end, however much his friends might entreat him to put off the rasping
hair. "No, no, God forbid that I should. This raiment does not scrape,
but soothe; does not hurt, but help," he answered sternly. He gave exact
details of how he was to be