On the Abbot’s right was Father James, the Prior, whose jolly face and ample girth were equalled only by the Sub-prior, Father Albert, the favorite of all the Abbey, who permitted the monks to do their own sweet wills so long as it did not interfere with the necessary labors of the farms and religious ceremonies.

“Let the names of the candidates for admission to full brotherhood in our holy Order be read,” the Abbot ordered.

The Chancellor stepped forward and with much rattle of parchment opened the roll and cleared his throat preparatory to intoning.  But he got no further.  The religious calm was rudely broken by the clash of steel on the bare pavement of the ante-chamber, and as Aldam raised his head in angry surprise the door was flung back and the two Knights, visors up, strode down the aisle.

Instantly there was confusion; the monks, like timid children, drew far away from these impious invaders of their peacefulness; some made as though to flee; and all broke out into cries of alarm and terror.

The Abbot sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing, his face pale with suppressed ire.

“Silence!” he thundered.  “Return this instant to your seats, you fearful ones!”

The brothers huddled back into their places, trembling.  There was for them small choice between the anger of their ruler and the armed men in their midst.

“Truly this is strange conduct for Sir John de Bury and Sir Aymer de Lacy,” the Abbot exclaimed as they halted before the dais.  “Since when, pray, has it been deemed knightly to offer such affront to Holy Church?”

“Since a mitred Abbot of Holy Church has shamed his sacred office,” De Lacy answered curtly.

“What, sirs!” Aldam cried.  “Do you dare insult the Abbot of Kirkstall, here in his very chapter, and hope to go unpunished either in this world or the next?”

Aymer folded his arms over the shaft of his battle axe and laughed grimly.

“In this world methinks small need have we to fear your reverence; and as for the next world we will chance it.  But be advised:  tax us not with threats; our patience is likely to be short.”

“And ours is gone entirely—­do you, Sir John de Bury, approve this rash youth’s sacrilege?”

“Aye, that I do,” De Bury answered, his face set as stone.

“Are you both mad?” the Abbot exclaimed.

“Yea, that we are,” replied De Lacy.  “Mad with anger and resentment.  Can you guess why?”

The monk made no answer save a sneer.

“Listen, and you and your underlings shall hear:  One evening a month or so aback—­your memory, good father, will serve you whether it was one, or two, or three—­a certain demoiselle styled Countess of Clare, Maid to Her Majesty, the Queen of England, while near the Hermit’s Cell in the escort of Sir John de Bury, her uncle and guardian, was waylaid and by force and violence seized upon and carried off.  And though there was hue and cry and searchings without rest, yet it was unavailing.”