Sir Julian’s sword-prick had goaded Cantemir to an anger that was ’suaged neither by good old wine nor the council of the monk.  He fretted for an opportunity to thrust his assailant in the back—­anywhere.  “Surely,” said he, “the day is not far when I shall kill that devil Pomphrey,” His groom had seen Sir Julian full in the face at a small opening in the trees.

“Sh!” said Dempsy, “there is other work for thee now.  ’Tis best for thee to bide here awhile, at least until a courier shall return from the tree, where thou sayest thy cousin will place the billet.  And if everything is well, then there will be found for thee a guide to lead thee through the forest to the monastery, where thou shalt first sign thyself for the strict carrying out of our plans; then thou shalt be wed, if there is no remissness, and carried safely to London, where thou shalt remain until thy lady has audience, and gains that we seek of the King.  Ah! there are times when we sigh and almost weep for those good old pro-Reformation days, when such ecclesiastical bodies as ours took their grievances to—­Rome.  Bah! to have to bribe a profligate king for—­the signing of his name.  What does he know about bequests and inheritances—­” The count started and Dempsy all alert broke in with,—­“and freeholds.  Thou dost know, count, the monastery is a freehold in the very centre of Lord Cedric’s lands; but—­I am telling secrets; forget what I said.”  The count fell back listlessly, a gap made in his thoughts by the sudden disappearance of a clue.

“Charles treats us as mendicants; but if he should chance to see the coffers of our order, he would know we had received something else beside a crust for shriving.”  The count looked up again so quickly, Dempsy caught himself and wondered what he had been saying, and what his last words were; for he had been thinking aloud, as it were.

“Aye, aye, I was saying if Charles could see the riches of our coffers, he would know the sale of Indulgences had not been a little.  Thou seest, count, we have here at the monastery great treasure, our coffers are filled with priceless articles of virtue that will, no doubt, be carried to Rome and be laid in the reliquary of Santa Maria Maggiore or St. Andrew Corsini or St. Peters.  We have some priceless bones—­” Adrian shuddered and relaxed his attention—­“they have brought us great, good fortune; we have bits of clothing—­thou dost well know most of the saints were plainly attired—­that some day will be worth much, perhaps not in my day nor thine, but when age comes, when we grow a little further from the saints.  Ah!  I see, thou hast not much interest in my converse—­treasure is nothing to thy love-sick heart, eh! count?”

“Nay, not dead men’s bones, indeed thou hast rare wine for such cumbrous relics that can be turned to naught!  And didst thou shrive the saint for the use of his bones a hundred years hence?”

“Thou art growing facetious, count.  Dost think of no virtue but thy maid’s?  And art thou sure she will not fall back from her promise to thee?”