his library, for he was the rich possessor of twenty-six
volumes, eight of which were romances of chivalry, wherein valiant
knights did all kinds of impossibilities at the behest of fair damsels,
rescued enchanted princesses, slew two-headed giants, or wandered for
months over land and sea in quest of the Holy Grail, which few of them
were sufficiently good even to see, and none to bring back to Arthur's
Court. But Mr Benden found that the adventures of Sir Isumbras, or the
woes of the Lady Blanchefleur, were quite incapable of making him forget
the very disagreeable present. Then he tried rebuilding and newly
furnishing a part of his house; but that proved even less potent to
divert his thoughts than the books. Next he went into company, laughed
and joked with empty-headed people, played games, sang, and amused
himself in sundry ways, and came home at night, to feel more solitary
and miserable than before. Then, in desperation, he sent for the barber
to bleed him, for our forefathers had a curious idea that unless they
were bled once or twice a year, especially in spring, they would never
keep in good health. We perhaps owe some of our frequent poverty of
blood to that fancy. The only result of this process was to make Mr
Benden feel languid and weak, which was not likely to improve his
spirits. Lastly, he went to church, and was shriven--namely, confessed
his sins, and was absolved by the priest. He certainly ought to have
been happy after that, but somehow the happiness would not come. He did
not know what to do next.

All these performances had taken some time. Christmas came and passed--
Christmas, with its morning mass and evening carols, its nightly waits,
its mummers or masked itinerant actors, its music and dancing, its games
and sports, its plum-porridge, mince-pies, and wassail-bowl. There were
none of these things for Alice Benden in her prison, save a mince-pie,
to which she treated herself and Rachel: and there might as well have
been none for her husband, for he was unable to enjoy one of them. The
frosts and snows of January nipped the blossoms, and hardened the roads,
and made it difficult work for Roger Hall to get from Staplehurst to
Canterbury: yet every holy-day his pleasant face appeared at the window
of the gaol, and he held a short sympathising chat with Alice. The
gaoler and the Bishop's officers came to know him well. It is a wonder,
humanly speaking, that he was never arrested du