table stood a golden
crucifix, a miracle of art, and upon an easel, so that the light from a
hanging silver lamp fell on it, a life-sized picture of the Magdalene
by some great Italian painter, turning her beauteous eyes to heaven and
beating her fair breast.

Sir John looked about him and sniffed.

"Now, Jeffrey, would you think that you were in a monk's cell or in some
great dame's bower? Hunt under the table, man; sure, you will find her
lute and needlework. Whose portrait is that, think you?" and he pointed
to the Magdalene.

"A sinner turning saint, I think, master. Good company for laymen when
she was sinner, and good for priests now that she is saint. For the
rest, I could snore well here after a cup of yon red wine," and he
jerked his thumb towards a long-necked bottle on a sideboard. "Also,
the fire burns bright, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that it is
made of dry oak from your Sticksley Wood."

"How know you that, Jeffrey?" asked Sir John.

"By the grain of it, master--by the grain of it. I have hewn too many
a timber there not to know. There's that in the Sticksley clays which
makes the rings grow wavy and darker at the heart. See there."

Sir John looked, and swore an angry oath.

"You are right, man; and now I come to think of it, when I was a little
lad my old grandsire bade me note this very thing about the Sticksley
oaks. These cursed monks waste my woods beneath my nose. My forester is
a rogue. They have scared or bribed him, and he shall hang for it."

"First prove the crime, master, which won't be easy; then talk of
hanging, which only kings and abbots, 'with right of gallows,' can do at
will. Ah! you speak truth," he added in a changed voice; "it is a lovely
chamber, though not good enough for the holy man who dwells in it,
since such a saint should have a silver shrine like him before the altar
yonder, as doubtless he will do when ere long he is old bones," and,
as though by chance, he trod upon his lord's foot, which was somewhat
gouty.

Round came Sir John like the Blossholme weathercock on a gusty day.

"Clumsy toad!" he yelled, then paused, for there within the arras, that
had been lifted silently, stood a tall, tonsured figure clothed in rich
furs, and behind him two other figures, also tonsured, in simple black
robes. It was the Abbot with his chaplains.

"Benedicite!" said the Abbot in his soft, foreign voice, lifting the two
fingers of his right hand in blessing.

"G