to thy thieves and felons, for many of them are felons and
thieves, or the children of such; and most of those who are not, it is
said, are not Saxons, but the barbarous folks whom the Saxons subdued.
No, wretched things, and scarce men, they care nought for the land.
Howbeit, even they are not without hope, for the Church takes their part;
and that, at least, I for one think Church-worthy," added the Saxon with
a softened eye. "And every abbot is bound to set free three theowes on
his lands, and few who own theowes die without freeing some by their
will; so that the sons of theowes may be thegns, and thegns some of them
are at this day."

"Marvels!" cried the Norman. "But surely they bear a stain and stigma,
and their fellow-thegns flout them?"

"Not a whit--why so? land is land, money money. Little, I trow, care we
what a man's father may have been, if the man himself hath his ten hides
or more of good boc-land."

"Ye value land and the moneys," said the Norman, "so do we, but we value
more name and birth."

"Ye are still in your leading-strings, Norman," replied the Saxon, waxing
good-humoured in his contempt. "We have an old saying and a wise one,
'All come from Adam except Tib the ploughman: but when Tib grows rich all
call him "dear brother."'"

"With such pestilent notions," quoth the Sire de Graville, no longer
keeping temper, "I do not wonder that our fathers of Norway and Daneland
beat ye so easily. The love for things ancient--creed, lineage, and
name, is better steel against the stranger than your smiths ever welded."

Therewith, and not waiting for Sexwolf's reply, he clapped spurs to his
palfrey, and soon entered the courtyard of the convent.

A monk of the order of St. Benedict, then most in favour [153], ushered
the noble visitor into the cell of the abbot; who, after gazing at him a
moment in wonder and delight, clasped him to his breast and kissed him
heartily on brow and cheek.

"Ah, Guillaume," he exclaimed in the Norman tongue, "this is indeed a
grace for which to sing Jubilate. Thou canst not guess how welcome is
the face of a countryman in this horrible land of ill-cooking and exile."

"Talking of grace, my dear father, and food," said De Graville, loosening
the cincture of the tight vest which gave him the shape of a wasp--for
even at that early period, small waists were in vogue with the warlike
fops of the French Continent--"talking of grace, the sooner thou say'st
it over some