h it is true
that I will speak of it louder elsewhere, namely, before the King's
Council. To-morrow, my Lord Abbot, this paper and I go to London, and
then you shall learn how well it pays you to try to pluck a Foterell of
his own."

Now it was the Abbot's turn to be frightened. His smooth, olive-coloured
cheeks sank in and went white, as though already he felt the cord about
his throat. His jewelled hand shook, and he caught the arm of one of his
chaplains and hung to it.

"Man," he hissed, "do you think that you can utter such false threats
and go hence to ruin me, a consecrated abbot? I have dungeons here; I
have power. It will be said that you attacked me, and that I did but
strive to defend myself. Others can bring witness besides you, Sir
John," and he whispered some words in Latin or Spanish into the ear of
one of his chaplains, whereon that priest turned to leave the room.

"Now it seems that we are getting to business," said Jeffrey Stokes, as,
lying his hand upon the knife at his girdle, he slipped between the monk
and the door.

"That's it, Jeffrey," cried Sir John. "Stop the rat's hole. Look you,
Spaniard, I have a sword. Show me to your gate, or, by virtue of the
King's commission that I hold, I do instant justice on you as a traitor,
and afterward answer for it if I win out."

The Abbot considered a moment, taking the measure of the fierce old
knight before him. Then he said slowly--

"Go as you came, in peace, O man of wrath and evil, but know that the
curse of the Church shall follow you. I say that you stand near to ill."

Sir John looked at him. The anger went out of his face, and, instead,
upon it appeared something strange--a breath of foresight, an
inspiration, call it what you will.

"By heaven and all its saints! I think you are right, Clement Maldon,"
he muttered. "Beneath that black dress of yours you are a man like the
rest of us, are you not? You have a heart, you have members, you have
a brain to think with; you are a fiddle for God to play on, and however
much your superstitions mask and alter it, out of those strings now and
again will come some squeak of truth. Well, I am another fiddle, of a
more honest sort, mayhap, though I do not lift two fingers of my right
hand and say, 'Benedicite, my son,' and 'Your sins are forgiven you';
and just now the God of both of us plays His tune in me, and I will tell
you what it is. I stand near to death, but you stand not far from the
gallows.