f his life in the
East, loved warmth.

"Now, Hugh de Cressi," he said, "what have you done?"

"Slain my cousin, John of Clavering, Father, and perhaps another man."

"In fair fight, very fair fight," croaked Grey Dick.

"Who doubts it? Can a de Cressi be a murderer?" asked the priest. "And
you, Richard the Archer, what have you done?"

"Shot a good horse and three bad men dead with arrows--at least they
should be dead--and another through the hand, standing one against
twenty."

"A gallant--I mean--an evil deed," broke in the old warrior priest,
"though once it happened to me in a place called Damascus--but you both
are wet, also. Come into my chamber; I can furnish you with garments of
a sort. And, Richard, set that black bow of yours near the fire, but not
too fire. As you should know well, a damp string is ill to draw with.
Nay, fear not to leave it; this is sanctuary, and to make sure I will
lock the doors."

Half an hour was gone by, and a very strange company had gathered round
the big fire in the guest-chamber of the Temple, eating with appetite of
such food as its scanty larder could provide for them. First there was
Red Eve in a woollen garment, the Sunday wear of Mother Agnes for twenty
years past and more, which reached but little below her knees, and was
shaped like a sack. On her feet were no shoes, and for sole adornment
her curling black hair fell about her shoulders, for so she had arranged
it because the gown would not meet across her bosom. Yet, odd as it
might be, in this costume Eve looked wonderfully beautiful, perhaps
because it was so scant and the leathern strap about her waist caused it
to cling close to her shapely form.

By her stood Hugh, wearing a splendid suit of chain armour. It had been
Sir Andrew Arnold's in his warlike years, and now he lent it to his
godson Hugh because, as he said, he had nothing else. Also, it may
have crossed the minds of both of them that such mail as this which
the Saracens had forged, if somewhat out of fashion, could still turn
swordcuts.

Then there was Grey Dick, whose garments seemed to consist of a sack
with holes in it tied round him with a rope, his quiver of arrows slung
over it for ornament. He sat by the fire on a stool, oiling his black
bow with a rind of the fat bacon that he had been eating.

All the tale had been told, and Father Arnold looked very grave indeed.

"I have known strange and dreadful stories in my time," he said, "but