broad-headed axe and a bundle of faggots upon his shoulders, while
beside him walked another with the shears under his arm and the white
wool still clinging to his whiter gown. A long, straggling troop bore
spades and mattocks while the two rearmost of all staggered along under
a huge basket o' fresh-caught carp, for the morrow was Friday, and there
were fifty platters to be filled and as many sturdy trenchermen behind
them. Of all the throng there was scarce one who was not labor-stained
and weary, for Abbot Berghersh was a hard man to himself and to others.

Meanwhile, in the broad and lofty chamber set apart for occasions of
import, the Abbot himself was pacing impatiently backwards and forwards,
with his long white nervous hands clasped in front of him. His thin,
thought-worn features and sunken, haggard cheeks bespoke one who had
indeed beaten down that inner foe whom every man must face, but had none
the less suffered sorely in the contest. In crushing his passions he had
well-nigh crushed himself. Yet, frail as was his person there gleamed
out ever and anon from under his drooping brows a flash of fierce
energy, which recalled to men's minds that he came of a fighting stock,
and that even now his twin-brother, Sir Bartholomew Berghersh, was one
of the most famous of those stern warriors who had planted the Cross of
St. George before the gates of Paris. With lips compressed and clouded
brow, he strode up and down the oaken floor, the very genius and
impersonation of asceticism, while the great bell still thundered and
clanged above his head. At last the uproar died away in three last,
measured throbs, and ere their echo had ceased the Abbot struck a small
gong which summoned a lay-brother to his presence.

"Have the brethren come?" he asked, in the Anglo-French dialect used in
religious houses.

"They are here," the other answered, with his eyes cast down and his
hands crossed upon his chest.

"All?"

"Two and thirty of the seniors and fifteen of the novices, most holy
father. Brother Mark of the Spicarium is sore smitten with a fever and
could not come. He said that--"

"It boots not what he said. Fever or no, he should have come at my call.
His spirit must be chastened, as must that of many more in this Abbey.
You yourself, brother Francis, have twice raised your voice, so it hath
come to my ears, when the reader in the refectory hath been dealing with
the lives of God's most blessed saints. What hast tho