But in 1307 a great ecclesiastical tribunal was held in London, and it was proved that an unfortunate knight, who had refused to spit upon the cross, was haled from the dining-hall and drowned in a well, and testimony of the secret rites that were held there, and in which a certain black idol was worshipped, was forthcoming.  The Grand Master was burnt at the stake, the knights were thrown into prison, and their property was confiscated.  Then the forfeited estate of the Temple, presenting ready access by water, at once struck the advocates of the Court of Common Pleas at Westminster, and the students who were candidates for the privilege of pleading therein, as a most desirable retreat, and interest was made with the Earl of Lancaster, the king’s first cousin, who had claimed the forfeited property of the monks by escheat, as the immediate lord of the fee, for a lodging in the Temple, and they first gained a footing there as his lessees.

Above all, the church with its round tower-like roof was very dear to Mike and John, and they often spoke of the splendid spectacle of the religious warriors marching in procession, their white tunics with red crosses, their black and white banner called Beauseant.  It is seen on the circular panels of the vaulting of the side aisles, and on either side the letters BEAUSEANT.  There stands the church of the proud Templars, a round tower-like church, fitting symbol of those soldier monks, at the west end of a square church, the square church engrafted upon the circular so as to form one beautiful fabric.  The young men lingered around the time-worn porch, lovely with foliated columns, strange with figures in prayer, and figures holding scrolls.  And often without formulating their intentions in words they entered the church.  Beneath the groined ribs of the circular tower lie the mail-clad effigies of the knights, and through beautiful gracefulness of grouped pillars the painted panes shed bright glow upon the tesselated pavement.  The young men passed beneath the pointed arches and waited, their eyes raised to the celestial blueness of the thirteenth-century window, and then in silence stole back whither the knights sleep so grimly, with hands clasped on their breasts and their long swords.

And seeing himself in those times, clad in armour, a knight Templar walking in procession in that very church, John recited a verse of Tennyson’s Sir Galahad—­

  “Sometimes on lonely mountain meres
     I find a magic bark;
   I leap on board; no helmsman steers: 
     I float till all is dark. 
   A gentle sound, an awful light! 
     Three angels bear the holy Grail;
   With folded feet, in stoles of white,
     On sleeping wings they sail. 
   Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 
     My spirit beats her mortal bars,
   As down dark tides the glory slides,
     And star-like mingles with the stars.”

“Oh! very beautiful.  ‘On sleeping wings they sail.’  Say it again.”