Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XI.

  This is no Father Dominic: no huge overgrown Abbey lubber.--Spanish Friar.

  Who can depict the feelings of Sir Osborne Maurice as he found himselfriding on towards that court where, with the ardour of youthful hope,he doubted not to retrieve the fortunes of his family by thosequalities which had already acquired for him an honourable fame?Clothed once more in arms, which for five years had been his almostconstant dress, far better mounted than when he first set out,supported by the friendship of some of the best and noblest of theland, and furnished with a sum which he had never dreamed ofpossessing, though but starting for the race, he felt as if he alreadyneared the goal; and looking round upon his four attendants, who wereall, as they were termed in that day, _especial stout varlets_, healmost wished, like a real knight-errant, that some adventure wouldpresent itself wherein he might signalise himself for the first timein his native country.

  Dame Fortune, however, was coy, and would not favour him in that sort;and after having ridden on for half-an-hour, enjoying almost tointoxication the deep draughts of renewed hope, he brought to hisside, by a sign, our friend Longpole, who, now promoted to the dignityof custrel, or shield-bearer, followed with the armed servants of theduke, carrying Sir Osborne's target and spear.

  "Tell me, Longpole," said the knight, who had remarked his faithfulretainer in busy conversation with his companions, "hast thoudiscovered why the duke's servants have not his grace's cognizance orbearing, either on the breast or arm?"

  "Why, it seems, your worship, that they are three stout fellows whoattended the noble duke in the wars, and they are commanded to waitupon your worship till the duke shall have need of them. Each has hisquiver and his bow, besides his sword and pike; so if we should chanceto meet that wolf Sir Payan, or any of his under-wolves, we may wellrequite them for the day's board and lodging which your worship had atthe manor. We, being five, could well match ten of them; and besides,the little old gentleman in black velvet told me that your worshipwould be fortunate in all things for two months after you got out; butthat after that he could not say, for----"

  "What little gentleman in black are you speaking of?" interrupted theknight. "You forget I do not know whom you mean."

  "Ay, true, your worship," answered Longpole. "I forgot you were lockedup all that while. But you must know that when Sir Payan returnedyesterday he brought with him a little gentleman dressed in a blackvelvet doublet and crimson hose; but so small, so small he would beobliged to stand on tip-toe to look me into a tankard. Well, Sir Payansent for me, and questioned me a great deal about the young lady whohad been in with you; and he thought himself vastly shrewd; forcertain he is cunning enough to cheat the devil out of a bed and asupper any day; but I did my best to blind him, and then he asked mefor the key, and said he would keep it himself. So I was obliged togive up the only way I had of helping your worship; for I saw by thatthat Sir Payan suspected me, and would not trust me any more near you,which indeed he did not. Well, he made a speech to the littlegentleman, and then left the room; and I suppose I looked at thebottom of my wits, for the little fellow says to me, 'Heartley!there's a window as well as a door.' So I started, first to find heknew my name, and secondly because he knew what I was thinking about.However, I thought there was no use to be angry with a man for pickingmy pocket of my thoughts without my knowing it; so I took it quietly,and answered, 'I know there is; but how shall I make him understandwhat he is to do?' 'Tell me what it is,' said he, 'and I will show youhow.' So I don't know why, because he might have been a great cheat,but I told him; and thereupon he took a bit of parchment from hispocket, it might be half a skin, and a bit of whitish wax it lookedlike, out of a bottle, and made as if he wrote upon the parchment; butthe more he wrote the less writing I could see. However, he gave methe piece of parchment, and told me to throw it in at the window afterdark, with a heap more. I resolved to try, for I began to guess thatthe little old gentleman was a conjuror; and when I got into the dark,I found that the paper was all shining like a stinking fish; and yourlordship knows the rest."

  "He is an extraordinary man," said Sir Osborne. "But did you neverhear your father speak of Sir Cesar?"

  "I have heard my good dad talk about one Sir Cesar," said Longpole,"but I did not know that this was he. If I had I would have thankedhim for many a kind turn he did for the two old folks while I wasaway. But does your worship see those heavy towers standing up overthe trees to the left? That is the Benedictine Abbey, just out ofCanterbury."

  "That is where I am going," replied the knight, "if that beWilsbourne."

  "Wilsbourne or St. Cummin," answered Longpole; "they call it either.The abbot is a good man, they say, which is something to say for anabbot, as days go. Your abbey is a very silent discreet place; 'tislike purgatory, where a man gets quit of his sins without the devilknowing anything about it."

  "Nay, nay, you blaspheme the cloister, Longpole," said the knight. "Ihave heard a great deal spoken against the heads of monasteries; but Icannot help thinking that as most men hate their superiors, some ofthe monks would be sure to blazon the sins of those above them, ifthey had so many as people say."

  "Faith, they are too cunning a set for that," replied Longpole. "Theyhave themselves a proverb, which goes to say, 'Let the world wag, doyour own business, and always speak well of the lord abbot; so youshall feed well, and fare well, and sleep, while tolls the matinbell.' But your worship must turn up here, if you are really going tothe abbey."

  The knight signified that such was certainly his intention; andturning up the lane that led across to the abbey, in about a quarterof an hour he arrived at a little open green, bordered by the highwall that surrounded the gardens. The lodge, forming, as it were, partof the wall itself, stood exactly opposite, looking over the green,with its heavy wooden doors and small loophole windows. To it Longpolerode forward, and rang the bell; and on the appearance of an oldstupid-faced porter, the knight demanded to see the lord abbot.

  "You can see him at vespers in the church, if you like to go, anyday," said the profound janitor, whose matter-of-fact mindcomprehended alone the mere meaning of each word.

  "But I cannot speak with him at vespers," said the knight. "I have aletter for him from his grace of Buckingham, and must speak with him."

  "That is a different case," said the porter; "you said you wanted tosee the abbot, not to speak to him. But come in."

  "I cannot come in without you open the other gate," said the knight."How can my horse pass, old man?"

  "Light down, then!" said the porter. "I shall not let in horses here,unless it be my lord abbot's mule, be you who you will."

  "Then you will take the consequences of not letting me in," repliedthe knight, "for I shall not light down from my horse till I am in thecourt."

  "Then you will stay out," said the old man, very quietly shutting thedoor, much to Sir Osborne's indignation and astonishment. For amoment, he balanced whether he should ride on without farther care, orwhether he should again make an attempt upon the obdurate porter. Amoment, however, determined him to choose the latter course; andcatching the bell-rope, he rang a very sufficient peal. Nobodyappeared, and angry beyond all patience, the knight again clapped hishand to the rope, muttering, "If you won't hear, old man, othersshall;" and pulling for at least five minutes, he made the whole placeecho with the din.

  He was still engaged in this very sonorous employment, when the doorwas again opened by the porter, and a monk appeared, dressed simply inthe loose black gown of St. Benedict, with the cowl, scapulary, andother vestments of a brother of the order.

  "I should think, sir knight," said he, "that you might find somebetter occupation than in disturbing myself and brethren here, walkingin our garden, without offending you or any one."

  "My good father," answered Sir Osborne, "it is I who have cause to beangry, rather than any one else. I came here for the purpose ofrendering a slight service to my lord abbot, and am bearer of a letterfrom his grace of Buckingham; and your un
civil porter shuts your gatein my face, because I do not choose to dismount from my horse, andleave my attendants without, though I know not how long it may beconvenient for your superior to detain me."

  "You have done wrong," said the monk, turning to the porter; "first,in refusing to open the gate, next, in telling me what was false aboutit. Open the great gates, and admit the knight and his train. I shallremember this in the penance."

  The old porter dared not murmur, but he dared very well be slow, andhe contrived to be nearly half an hour in the simple operation ofdrawing the bolts and bars, and opening the gates, which the good monkbore with much greater patience than the knight, who had fondlycalculated upon reaching the village of Sithenburn that night, and whosaw the day waning fast in useless retardation.

  At length, however, the doors unclosed, and he rode into the avenuethat led through the gardens to the back of the abbey, the monkpreparing to walk beside his horse. A feeling, however, of respect fora certain mildness and dignity in the old man's manner, induced him todismount; and giving his horse to one of the servants, he entered intoconversation with his conductor, while, as they went along, hisclanging step and glistening arms called several of the brethren fromtheir meditative sauntering, to gaze at the strange figure of an armedknight within their peaceful walls.

  "Surely, father," said Sir Osborne, as they walked on, his mind drawnnaturally to such thoughts, "the silent quietude of the scene, and thecalm tranquillity of existence which you enjoy here, would more thancompensate for all the fleeting unreal pleasures of the world, withouteven the gratification of those holy thoughts that first call you tothis retirement?"

  "There are many who feel it so, my son, and I among them," answeredthe old man; "but yet, do not suppose that human nature can everpurify itself entirely of earthly feelings. Hopes, wishes, andnecessities produce passions even here: pettier, it is true, becausethe sphere is pettier. But, depend upon it, no society can ever be soconstructed as to eradicate the evil propensities of man's nature, oreven their influence, without entirely circumscribing his communionwith his fellows. He must be changed, or solitary: must have noobjects to excite, or no passions to be excited: he must be a hermitor a corpse; have a desert or the grave."

  "'Tis a bad account of human nature," said the knight. "I had fanciedthat such feelings as you speak of were unknown here: that, at allevents, religious sentiments would correct and overcome them."

  "They do correct, my son, though they cannot overcome them," said themonk. "I spoke of monastic life merely as a human institution; andeven in that respect we are likely to meet with more tranquillitywithin such walls as these than perhaps anywhere else, because thepersons who adopt such a state from choice are generally those of acalm and placid disposition, and religion easily effects the rest. Butthere are others, driven by disappointment, by satiety, by caprice, byfear, by remorse, by even pride; and urged by bad feelings from thefirst, those bad feelings accompany them still, and act as a leavenamongst those with whom they are thus forced to consort. Even when itis but sorrow that, weaning from worldly pleasure, brings a brotherhere, often the sorrow leaves him, and the taste for the worldreturns, when an irrevocable vow has torn him from it for ever; orelse, if his grief lasts, it becomes a black and brooding melancholy,as different from true religion as even the mad gaiety of thethoughtless crowd. There was a youth here, not long ago, who was wontto call the matin bell _the knell of broken hearts_. Others, again,circumscribed in the range of their feelings, become irascible fromthe very restraint, and vent their irritability on all around them."

  "But example in the superior does much," said the knight; "and I haveheard that your lord abbot----"

  "Whether you are about to praise or blame," said the monk, "stop! I amthe abbot. If it were praise you were about to speak I could not hearit silently; if 'twere blame, I would fain save you the pain ofuttering to my own ears what many doubtless say behind my back."

  "Indeed, my lord abbot," answered the knight, "I had nothing to speakbut praise; and had it been blame, I would sooner have said it toyourself than to one of your monks. But to the business which bringsme hither. His grace the Duke of Buckingham, by this letter, commendshim to your lordship; and knowing that I purpose journeying to thecourt, he has desired me to conduct, and protect with my best power, ayoung lady, whose name I forget, till I have rendered her safely toher royal mistress, Queen Katherine."

  "I thank you for the trouble you have already taken, my son. We willin to the scriptorium," said the abbot; "and when I have perused hisgrace's letter, will have the lady informed that you are here."

  Although that art was rapidly advancing which soon after entirelysuperseded the necessity of manual transcription for multiplyingbooks, yet the scriptorium, or copying-room, was still not only to befound, but was also still employed for its original purpose, in almostevery abbey or monastery of consequence. In that of the Benedictinesof Wilsbourne, it was a large oblong chamber, vaulted with low Gothicarches, and divided into various small compartments by skreens ofcarved oak. Each of these possessed its table and writing apparatus;and in more than one, when Sir Osborne entered, was to be seen a monkcopying some borrowed manuscript for the use of the abbey. Theapproach of the abbot, whose manners seemed to possess a great deal ofprimeval simplicity, did not in the least derange the copyists intheir occupation; and it is probable that, when unengaged in theimmediate ministry of his office, he did not exact that ceremoniousreverence to which the mitred abbot was by rank entitled.

  In politeness, as in everything else, there are of course variousshades of difference very perceptible to observation, yet hardlytangible by language: thus, when the abbot had read the Duke ofBuckingham's letter, the character which it gave of Sir Osborne causeda very discernible change to take place in his manner, though in whatit consisted it would be difficult to say. He had always been polite,but his politeness became warmer: when he spoke it was with a smile;and, in short, it was evidently an alteration in his mind, from themere feeling of general benevolence which inhabits every good bosom,to the sort of individual kindness which can only follow some degreeof acquaintance. He expressed much gratification at the idea of LadyKatrine Bulmer having the advantage of the knight's escort, moreespecially, he said, as the news from Rochester became worse andworse. But Sir Osborne, he continued, had better speak with the ladyherself, when they could form such arrangements as might be foundconvenient; for Lady Katrine had a good deal of the light caprice ofyouth, and loved to follow her own fantasies. He then sent somedirections to the prior concerning matters of discipline, and gaveorders that the attendants of Sir Osborne should be brought to thehospitaler, whose peculiar charge it was to entertain guests andstrangers; and this being done, he led the way towards that part ofthe abbey which contained the sisters of the order, preceded by a monkbearing a large key.

  Separated throughout by a wall of massy masonry, no communicationexisted between the two portions of the building, except by a smalliron door, the key of which always remained with the abbot, and bysome underground communications, as it was whispered, the knowledge ofwhich was confined also to his bosom. Of these subterranean chambersmany dark tales of cruelty and unheard-of penances were told as havinghappened in former ages, when monastic sway had its full ascendant;but even their very existence was now doubtful; and when any onementioned them before the abbot he only smiled, as a man will do atthe tales of wonder that amaze a child. However that may be, the wayby which he led the young knight to the female side of the monasterywas simply through the cloisters; and having arrived at the door ofcommunication, he took the key from the bearer, unlocked it himself,and making the knight pass into the cloister on the other side, helocked the door and rejoined him.

  The place in which they now were was a gloomy arcade, surrounding asmall square court, in the centre of which appeared a statue ofScholastica, the sister of Saint Benedict; and several almost childishornaments evinced the pious designs of the good sisters to decoratetheir patroness. But, notwithstanding a
ll their efforts, it was adreary spot. The pointed arches of the cloister resting upon pillarsof scarce a foot in height; the thick embellishments of stone-workforming almost what heralds would call a _bordure fleur?e_ round thearchways; together with the towering height of the buildings roundabout, took away the scanty light that found its way into deeprecesses of the double aisle, and buried all the second or inner rowof arches in profound shadow.

  Another small door appeared on the left of the abbot, who still heldthe key in his hand; but stopping, he pointed along the cloister tothe right, and said, "My son, I must here leave you, for I go to mysister's apartment, to have the lady called to the grate, and nolayman must pass here; but if you follow that arcade round the courttill you see a passage leading again towards the light (you cannotmiss your way), you will come to the convent court, as it is called,and exactly opposite you will find a door which leads to the grate.There I will rejoin you."

  The knight followed the lord abbot's direction; and proceeding roundthe first side of the square, was turning into the second, when hethought he saw the flutter of a white garment in the shadowy part ofthe inner aisle. "It is some nun," thought he: but a moment'sreflection brought to his mind that the habit of the Benedictines wasalways black; and it may be that curiosity made him take a step or twosomewhat faster than he did before.

  "Open the door, and make haste, Geraldine," said a female voice, in alow tone, but one that, nevertheless, reverberated by the arches,reached the knight's ears quite distinctly enough for him to hear thelady proceed.

  "He must be on horseback, I think, by the quickness of his pace andthe clanking of his hoofs. Cannot you open it? Run across the court,then, silly wench, quick! or Gogmagog will have you;" and with a lightlaugh, the lady of the white robe darted out from the archway, andtripped gracefully across the court, with her long veil flowing backfrom her head as she ran, and showing fully the beautiful brown hairwith which it was mingled, and the beautiful sunny face which it wasmeant to hide, but which, fully conscious of its own loveliness, wasnow turned with a somewhat playful, somewhat inquisitive, somewhatcoquettish glance, towards the knight.

  Following close behind her was a pretty young woman, dressed as aservant-maid, who ran on without looking to the right or left, andwho, probably being really frightened, almost tumbled over hermistress, not perceiving that she slackened her pace as she reachedthe other side of the court. It thus happened that she trod on theyoung lady's foot, who uttered a slight cry, and leaned upon theservant for support.

  As may be imagined, Sir Osborne was by her side in a moment,expressing his hopes that she was not hurt, and tendering his serviceswith knightly gallantry; but the lady suddenly drew herself up, madehim a low curtsey, and stiffly thanking him for his attention, walkedslowly to the door by which the abbot had entered.

  Not very well pleased with the reception his politeness had met, theknight proceeded on his way, and easily found the passage which theabbot had described, leading, as he had been told into the largercourt, exactly opposite the door by which visitors were usuallyadmitted. This door, as usual, stood open; and mounting the steps, SirOsborne proceeded on into a small room beyond, separated from theparlour by a carved oak partition, in the centre of which was placedthe trellis-work of gilded iron called the grate.

  Nobody appearing on the other side, Sir Osborne cast himself upon thebench with which one side of the room was furnished, and waitedpatiently for the appearance of the lady, abandoning now, ofnecessity, the idea of proceeding farther that night. After havingwaited for a few minutes, a light step met his ear; and without muchsurprise, for he had already guessed what was the fact, he saw thesame lady approach the grate whom he had met in the court. Risingthereupon from his seat, he advanced to the partition, and bowed low,as if to a person he had never seen. The lady, on her part, made him alow curtsey, and both remained silent.

  "I am here," said the knight, after a long pause, "to receive thecommands of Lady Katrine Bulmer, if I have now the honour of speakingto her?"

  "My name is Bulmer, sir knight," replied the lady, "and eke Katrine,and some folks call me lady, and some mistress; but by what my lordabbot and my lady abbess just tell me, it seems that I am to receiveyour commands rather than you to receive mine."

  "Very far from it, madam," said the knight; "you have but to expressyour wishes, and they shall be obeyed."

  "There now!" cried the lady, with an air of mock admiration; "sirknight, you are the flower of courtesy! Then you do not positivelyinsist on my getting up at five to-morrow morning to set out, as mylord abbot informed me? A thing I never did in my life, and which,please God, I never will do!"

  "I insisted upon nothing, madam," answered the knight, "I onlyinformed my lord abbot that it would be more convenient to me todepart as speedily as possible; and I ventured to hint that if youknew of how much importance it might be for me to arrive at the courtsoon, you would gratify me by using all the despatch which you mightwith convenience to yourself."

  "Then it is of importance to you?" demanded the lady; "that changesthe case. Name the hour, sir knight, and you shall find me ready. Butyou know not what a good horsewoman I am; I can make long journeys andquick ones."

  "Not less than two days will suffice, I fear," said the knight; "thefirst day we may halt at Gravesend."

  "Halt!" exclaimed the lady, laughing, and turning to her woman, whostood at a little distance behind, "do you hear that? Halt! He talksto me as if I were a soldier. Tell me, Geraldine, is it possible thatI look like a pikeman?"

  "Not any way like a soldier," replied the knight, sufficiently amusedwith her liveliness and beauty to forget her pertness; "not any waylike a soldier, unless it be one of heaven's host."

  "Gracious heaven!" cried the lady, "he says pretty things. Only thinkof a man in armour being witty! But really, sir knight, it frightensme to see you all wrapped up in horrid steel. Can it possibly be thatthese Rochester shipwrights are so outrageous as to require a beltedknight with lance in rest for the escort of a simple girl like me?"

  "Men are wont to guard great treasures with even superfluous care,"replied Sir Osborne. The lady made him a very profound curtsey, and heproceeded: "This was most probably the lord abbot's reason for sendingto request some escort from the Duke of Buckingham; for though I hearof some riot or tumult at Rochester, I cannot suppose it very serious.However, all I know is this, that the right reverend father did sendwhile I was there jousting in the park; and understanding that I wasabout to proceed to London, his grace resigned to me the honour ofconducting you safely thither."

  "What, then! you are not one of the duke's own knights?" exclaimedLady Katrine.

  "I am no one's knight," replied Sir Osborne with a smile, "except itbe the king's and yours, if such you will allow me to be."

  "Oh, that I will!" answered the lady. "I should like a tame knightabove anything; but in troth, I have spoken to you somewhat toolightly, sir." She proceeded more gravely: "From what my lord uncleabbot told me, I judged the duke had sent me one of his householdknights,[6] men who, having forty pounds a year, have been forced toreceive a slap on the shoulder for the sake of the herald's fee; andthen, having nought to do that may become the sir, they pin themselvesto the skirts of some great man's robe, to do both knightly andunknightly service."

  "Such am not I, fair lady," replied Sir Osborne, a little piqued thatshe could even have supposed so. "I took my knighthood in thebattle-plain, from the sword of a great monarch; and so long as I livemy service shall never be given but to my lady, my king, or my God!"

  "Nay, nay, do not look so fierce, man in armour," answered LadyKatrine, relapsing into her merriment. "Both from your manner and yourmien, I should have judged differently, if I had thought but for amoment; but do not you see, I never think? I take a thing for granted,and then go on acting upon it as if it were really true. But, as Isaid, you shall be my knight, and before we reach the court I doubtnot I shall have a task to give you, and a guerdon for your pains, ifthe good folks of Rochester do
not cut our throats in the mean while.But what hour did you say, sir knight, for setting out? for here mypoor wenches have to make quick preparations of all my habits."

  "I have named no hour," replied Sir Osborne; "but if you will do methe honour to let me know when you are ready tomorrow, my horses shallstand saddled from six in the morning."

  "But how am I to let you know?" demanded the lady, "unless I take holdof the bell-rope, and ring matins on the convent bell; and then allthe good souls will wink their eyes, and think the sun has turnedlie-a-bed. Dear heart! sir knight, you do not suppose that the monksand the nuns come running in and out between the two sides of theabbey, like the busy little ants in their wonderful small cities? No,no, no! none comes in here but my lord abbot and an old confessor ortwo, so deafened with the long catalogue of worldly sins that theywould not hear my errand, much less do it. But now I think of it,there is a good lay sister; her I will bribe with a silver piece torisk purgatory by going round to the front gate of the abbey, andtelling the monk when I am ready. And now, good sir knight, I must goback to my lord abbot, and fall down upon my knees and beg pardon; forI left him so offended that he would not come down with me, because Iwas pert about going early. Farewell! Judge not harshly of me tillto-morrow; perhaps then I may give you cause; who knows?"

  Thus saying, she tripped lightly away with a gay saucy toss of thehead, like a spoiled child, too sure of pleasing to be heedful aboutdoing so. As she turned away, the maid advanced to the grate, andinformed Sir Osborne that the lord abbot would meet him at the placewhere they had parted, upon which information the knight retrod hissteps to the little court of the cloisters, where he found the abbotpacing up and down, with a grave and thoughtful countenance.

  "I am afraid, Sir Osborne Maurice," said he, as the knight approached,"that the young lady you have just left has not demeaned herself as Icould have wished, towards you; for she left me in one of thoseflighty moods which I had good hope would have been cured by her stayin the convent."

  "She expected to find you still with the lady abbess," said SirOsborne, avoiding the immediate subject of the abbot's inquiry; "andwent with the intention of suing for pardon of your lordship, havinggiven you, she said, some offence."

  "I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!" said the monk; "for thenshe is penitent, which is all that God requires of us, and all that wecan require of others. Indeed her heart is good; and though shecommits many a fault, yet she repents the moment after, and would fainamend it. But come, sir knight! Though our own rules are strict, wemust show our hospitality to strangers; and I hope our refectioner hastaken care to remember that you will partake the fare of my tableto-night. But first you had better seek your chamber, and disencumberyourself of this armour, which, though very splendid, must be veryheavy. Ho! brother Francis, tell the hospitaller to come hither andconduct the knight to his apartment."

  While this short conversation was taking place, the abbot had led SirOsborne back into the cloisters on the male side of the building; andproceeding slowly along towards the wing in which was the scriptorium,and other apartments of general use, they were soon met by thehospitaller, who led the knight to a neat small chamber, furnishedwith a bed, a crucifix, and a missal. Here the worthy officer of theconvent essayed with inexpert hands to disengage the various pieces ofthe harness, speaking all the while, and asking a thousand idlequestions with true monastic volubility, without giving Sir Osborneeither time to hear or to reply.

  "Stay, stay!" said the knight at length, as the old man endeavoured tounbuckle the cuissards; "you cannot do it, my good father; andbesides, it is an unworthy task for such a holy man as you."

  "Not in the least, my son, not in the least!" replied the monk. "But,as I was saying, I dare say you have heard how the lord mayor and hismen went to Hogsden Lane, especially if you have been lately inLondon; or have you been down in Cornwall, allaying the Cornishtumultuaries? A-well, a-well! it is very odd I cannot get that buckleout; though, perhaps, my son, you can tell me whether the prior ofGloucester has embraced the mitigated rule instead of the severe; andindeed the mitigated is severe enough: four days' fast in the week! Ifthe Duke of Buckingham were to send us another fat buck, as he didlast year: but I forget, it is not the season. Alack, alack! allthings have their times and seasons, and truly I am of the season ofold age; though, God help us all! I believe I must call yourshield-bearer, for I cannot get the buckle out."

  "Do so, my good father," said the knight, glad enough to get rid ofhim; "and bid him bring my casque hither."

  Accordingly, our friend Longpole was soon brought to Sir Osborne'schamber, and by his aid the knight easily freed himself from thatbeautiful armour, which we, who are in the secret of all men's minds,may look upon as in a great degree a present from the Duke ofBuckingham, although Sir Osborne himself did not begin to suspect thatthe just and the prizes had been entirely given to furnish him withmoney and arms, till the lapse of two or three days allowed calmconsideration to show him the events in their true colours.

  After once more admiring for a moment or two the beauty of the suit,and having given directions for its being carefully cleansed of alldamp that it might have acquired on the road, he descended to thetable of the lord abbot, which he found handsomely provided for hisentertainment.

  To the wine, however, and the costly viands with which it was spread,the abbot himself did little justice, observing almost the rigidabstinence of an ascetic; but to compensate for his want of goodfellowship, the prior and sub-prior, who shared the same table, foundthemselves called upon to press the stranger to his food, and to leadthe way.