e was a dish of liver dressed with rice and herbs in the manner
of the Turk, for liver, though contained in flesh, was not reckoned
as flesh by liberal churchmen. There was a roast goose from the shore
marshes, that barnacle bird which pious epicures classed as shell-fish
and thought fit for fast days. A silver basket held a store of thin
toasted rye-cakes, and by the monk's hand stood a flagon of that drink
most dear to holy palates, the rich syrupy hippocras.

The woman looked on the table with approval, for her house had always
prided itself upon its good fare. The Cluniac's urbane composure was
stirred to enthusiasm. He said a Confiteor tibi Domine, rolling the
words on his tongue as if in anticipation of the solider mouthfuls
awaiting him. The keen weather had whetted his appetite and he thanked
God that his northern peregrinations had brought him to a house where
the Church was thus honoured. He had liked the cavalier treatment of the
lean parish priest, a sour dog who brought his calling into disfavour
with the rich and godly. He tucked back his sleeves, adjusted the linen
napkin comfortably about his neck, and fell to with a will. He raised
his first glass of hippocras and gave thanks to his hostess. A true
mother in Israel!

She was looking at him with favour. He was the breed of monk that she
liked, suave, well-mannered, observant of men and cities. Already he had
told her entertaining matter about the French King's court, and the new
Burgrave of Ghent, and the escapades of Count Baldwin. He had lived
much among gentlefolk and kept his ears open.... She felt stronger and
cheerfuller than she had been for days. That rat-hunt had warmed her
blood. She was a long way from death in spite of the cackle of idiot
chirurgeons, and there was much savour still in the world. There was her
son, too, the young Philip.... Her eye saw clearer, and she noted the
sombre magnificence of the great room, the glory of the brocade, the
gleam of silver. Was she not the richest woman in all Bruges, aye, and
in all Hainault and Guelderland? And the credit was her own. After the
fashion of age in such moods her mind flew backward, and she saw very
plain a narrow street in a wind-swept town looking out on a bleak sea.
She had been cold, then, and hungry, and deathly poor. Well, she had
travelled some way from that hovel. She watched the thick carved stems
of the candlesticks and felt a spacious ease and power.

The Cluniac was speakin