to the expulsion of our first parents from the garden,
and more than hinted that unless a reformation occurred some others of
the community might find themselves in the same evil and perilous case.
Having thus pointed the moral and reduced his flock to a fitting state
of docility, he dismissed them once more to their labors and withdrew
himself to his own private chamber, there to seek spiritual aid in the
discharge of the duties of his high office.

The Abbot was still on his knees, when a gentle tapping at the door of
his cell broke in upon his orisons.

Rising in no very good humor at the interruption, he gave the word to
enter; but his look of impatience softened down into a pleasant and
paternal smile as his eyes fell upon his visitor.

He was a thin-faced, yellow-haired youth, rather above the middle size,
comely and well shapen, with straight, lithe figure and eager, boyish
features. His clear, pensive gray eyes, and quick, delicate expression,
spoke of a nature which had unfolded far from the boisterous joys and
sorrows of the world. Yet there was a set of the mouth and a prominence
of the chin which relieved him of any trace of effeminacy. Impulsive
he might be, enthusiastic, sensitive, with something sympathetic and
adaptive in his disposition; but an observer of nature's tokens would
have confidently pledged himself that there was native firmness and
strength underlying his gentle, monk-bred ways.

The youth was not clad in monastic garb, but in lay attire, though his
jerkin, cloak and hose were all of a sombre hue, as befitted one who
dwelt in sacred precincts. A broad leather strap hanging from his
shoulder supported a scrip or satchel such as travellers were wont to
carry. In one hand he grasped a thick staff pointed and shod with metal,
while in the other he held his coif or bonnet, which bore in its front a
broad pewter medal stamped with the image of Our Lady of Rocamadour.

"Art ready, then, fair son?" said the Abbot. "This is indeed a day of
comings and of goings. It is strange that in one twelve hours the Abbey
should have cast off its foulest weed and should now lose what we are
fain to look upon as our choicest blossom."

"You speak too kindly, father," the youth answered. "If I had my will I
should never go forth, but should end my days here in Beaulieu. It hath
been my home as far back as my mind can carry me, and it is a sore thing
for me to have to leave it."

"Life brings many a cross,