There was scant time for hospitality.  The vessel lay in the dock which was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon that night; wind and tide were favourable.  Everything promised a quick passage, and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his kinsman and friends farewell, and embarked in the Rose of Pevensey.

England sank behind him.  The last glimpse he had of his native land was the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.

My native land—­Good night.

Chapter 16:  Michelham Once More.

It was a summer evening, and the sun was sinking behind the hills which encompass Lewes.  His declining beams gilded the towers of Michelham Priory.

Several of the brethren were walking on the terrace, which overlooked the broad moat, on the western side of the priory; for it was the recreation hour, between vespers and compline.

Across the woods came the knell of parting day, the curfew from the tower of Hamelsham:  the “lowing herd wound slowly o’er the lea” from the Dicker, when two friars came in sight, who wore the robe of Saint Francis, and approached the gateway.

“There be some of those ‘kittle cattle,’ the new brethren,” said the old porter from his grated window in the gateway tower over the bridge.  “If I had my will, they should spend the night on the heath.”

The friars rang the bell.  The porter reluctantly opened.

“Who are ye?”

“Two poor brethren of Saint Francis.”

“What do you want?”

“The wayfarer’s welcome.  Bed and board according to the rule of your hospitable house.”

“We like not you grey friars—­for we are told you are setters forth of strange doctrines, and disturb steady old church folk.  But natheless the hospitium is open to you as to all, whether gentle or simple, lay folk or clerks.  So enter, only if you threw those gray cloaks into the moat, you would be more welcome.”

They knew that, but they were not ashamed of their colours.

“Look,” said one of the monks to his fellow; “they that have turned the world upside down have come hither also.”

“Whom the warder hath received.”

“They will find scant welcome.”

Meanwhile Martin was looking with curious eyes on the buildings which had first received him when he escaped from the outlaw life of old.  But the evening meal was already prepared, and the bell rang for supper.

Many guests were there—­lay folk on pilgrimage, palmers and pilgrims with their stories, pedlars with their wares, clerics on their road to the Continent from the central parts of the island, men-at-arms, Englishmen, Normans, Gascons, Provencals.  And all had good fare, while a monk in nasal voice read: 

A good old homily of Saint Guthlac of Croyland,

Above the clatter of knives and dishes.

Now this Saint Guthlac was an abbot of Croyland, and many conflicts did he have with the devils of the fen country, whose presence could generally be ascertained by the hissing which took place when they settled with their fiery hoofs and claws on the wet swamps and moist sedges.