Here the leader sang: 

“Tu autem Domine, miserere nobis.”

And the whole brotherhood replied: 

“Deo gratias.”

The supper was ended, and the chapel bell began to ring for the final service of the day.  The period of silence throughout the dormitories and passages now began, and only stealthy footfalls broke the stillness of the summer night.

But the prior rang a silver bell:  “tinkle, tinkle.”

“Send me the elder of the two brethren of Saint Francis, him with the twinkling black eyes and roundish face.”

And Martin was brought to him.

“Sit down, my young brother,” said Prior Roger, “and tell me where I have seen thy face before.  I have gazed upon thee all through the frugal meal of which we have just partaken, for thy face is like a face I have seen in a dream.  Not that I doubt that thou art here in flesh and blood, unlike the fiends of Croyland, of whom we have just heard.”

Martin smiled, and replied: 

“My father, seven years agone, a noble earl found shelter here from the outlaws, from whom he was delivered by the self sacrifice of a woman, and the guidance of her son, an imp of some thirteen years.”

“I remember Earl Simon’s visit.  Art thou that boy?”

“I am, my father.”

“Ah well! ah me! how time passes!  But there is another remembrance which thy face awakens, of a death bed confession.  Sub sigillo, perhaps I am wrong in putting the two things together.  Sancte Benedicte ora pro me.  So thou hast taken the habit of Saint Francis.  Why didst not come to us, if thou wishedst to renounce the world and mortify the flesh?”

Martin was silent.

“And hast thou the gift of preaching?  I do not mean of talking.”

“My superiors thought so, but they are fallible.”

“I should think so, very, but that is nought.  I hope I have better sense than to send for thee, poor boy, to teach thee to rebel against thy superiors, and perhaps after all we Augustinians are too hard upon Franciscans and friars of low degree—­only we want to get to heaven our own way, with our steady jog trot, and you go frisking, caracolling, curvetting, gambolling along.  Well, I hope Saint Peter will let us all in at the last.”

Martin was silent, out of respect to the age of the speaker.

“Thou art a modest boy; come, tell me, who was thy father?”

“An outlaw, long since dead.”

“And thy mother?”

“His bride—­but I know not of what parentage.  There is a secret never disclosed to me, and which I shall never learn now, only I am assured that I was born in holy wedlock, and that a priest blessed the union.”

“Did thy mother marry again?”

“She was compelled to accept one Grimbeard, a chief amongst the ‘merrie men’ who succeeded my father as their leader.”

“Now, my son, I know why I looked at thee—­I knew thy father.  Nay, I administered the last rites of Holy Church to him.  I was travelling through the woods and following a short route to the great abbey of Battle, when a band of the outlaws burst forth from an ambush.