* * * * *

It was a piteous life that devout persons led at this time; and few were more unhappy than the household at Overfield.  It was the more miserable because Lady Torridon herself was so entirely out of sympathy with the others.  While she was not often the actual bearer of ill news—­for she had neither sufficient strenuousness nor opportunity for it—­it was impossible to doubt that she enjoyed its arrival.

They were all together at supper one warm summer evening when a servant came in to announce that a monk of St. Swithun’s was asking hospitality.  Sir James glanced at his wife who sat with passive downcast face; and then ordered the priest to be brought in.

He was a timid, tactless man who failed to grasp the situation, and when the wine and food had warmed his heart he began to talk a great deal too freely, taking it for granted that all there were in sympathy with him.  He addressed himself chiefly to Chris, who answered courteously; and described the sacking of the shrine at some length.

“He had already set aside our cross called Hierusalem,” cried the monk, his weak face looking infinitely pathetic with its mingled sorrow and anger, “and two of our gold chalices, to take them with him when he went; and then with his knives and hammers, as the psalmist tells us, he hacked off the silver plates from the shrine.  There was a fellow I knew very well—­he had been to me to confession two days before—­who held a candle and laughed.  And then when all was done; and that was not till three o’clock in the morning, one of the smiths tested the metal and cried out that there was not one piece of true gold in it all.  And Mr. Pollard raged at us for it, and told us that our gold was as counterfeit as the rotten bones that we worshipped.  But indeed there was plenty of gold; and the man lied; for it was a very rich shrine.  God’s vengeance will fall on them for their lies and their robbery.  Is it not so, mistress?”

Lady Torridon lifted her eyes and looked at him.  Her husband hastened to interpose.

“Have you finished your wine, father?”

The monk seemed not to hear him; and his talk flowed on about the destruction of the high altar and the spoiling of the reredos, which had taken place on the following days; and as he talked he filled his Venetian glass more than once and drank it off; and his lantern face grew flushed and his eyes animated.  Chris saw that his mother was watching the monk shrewdly and narrowly, and feared what might come.  But it was unavoidable.

“We poor monks,” the priest cried presently, “shall soon be cast out to beg our bread.  The King’s Grace—­”

“Is not poverty one of the monastic vows?” put in Lady Torridon suddenly, still looking steadily at his half-drunk glass.

“Why, yes, mistress; and the King’s Grace is determined to make us keep it, it seems.”

He lifted his glass and finished it; and put out his hand again to the bottle.