“Certes, we know all these matters,” Aldam broke in angrily.

“Yes, you know them—­and much more.”

The Cistercian’s face changed its expression not a whit.

“Are you aware, my lord Abbot, that the Duke of Buckingham has died upon the block?” De Lacy questioned.

Aldam shrugged his shoulders.  “It was scarce Stafford’s death that brought you to Kirkstall,” he scoffed.

Aymer laughed derisively.  “Think you so?  Then are you mistaken woefully.  But for it I would be at Salisbury and your foul crime still unsuspected.”

“Now has patience run its limit!” the Abbot exclaimed.  “Brothers of Benedict! throw me these two godless ones without the gates.”  And seizing the huge chair beside him, with strength astonishing in one so slender, he whirled it high and brought it down at De Lacy’s head.

But the Knight sprang lightly aside, and the heavy missile, tearing itself by sheer weight from the priest’s fingers, crashed upon the pavement and broke asunder.

If there had been any possibility of help from his frightened flock it was ended by this ill-timed blow.  The Prior and his fellows on the dais made not a single motion; and save for an excited swaying and whispering, the monks sat stolid on their benches, either too frightened to flee or too indifferent to the Abbot’s safety to care to aid him.  For once had the habit of trembling obedience, yoked upon them by years of stern domination, been loosed by the spirit of fear or the hope of release.

And with a sneer of disgust on his face he surveyed them; and the scorn in his voice must have shamed them to the floor had they been of the blood of such as feel disgrace.

“You cowardly curs!” he exclaimed; “have you no spark of manhood left among you?”

“Perchance they, in their turn, can dub you cur,” said De Lacy tersely, springing on the dais and taking hold upon the Abbot’s arm; “for here, on the dying word of the Duke of Buckingham, do I accuse you of complicity in the abduction of the Countess of Clare.”

Aldam shook off the mailed fingers.

“What!  What!” he cried.  “Would you lay hands in violence upon one of God’s anointed? . . .  Stand back, Sir Aymer de Lacy . . . and you, too, Sir John de Bury, lest I smite you both with the Church’s anathema.”

A gasp of horror came from the monks, and even the two Priors were appalled at the threat—­dire enough, indeed, to most men in that age, but little short of Hell itself to such as were cloister-bred.

De Lacy folded his arms again over his battle-axe.

“It was no purpose nor intent of mine,” he said, “to offer you
violence------”

“Nathless, it was done,” the Abbot broke in arrogantly, “and naught but sharp penance can atone for it and for your deeds here this day.”

De Lacy smiled contemptuously.  “Methinks, lord Abbot, you are strangely dull of brain to fancy you can fright us so.  Believe me, we care as little for your curse as for your broken chair.  Nor did I speak in apology for my action.  I meant no violence then; yet if we do not get true answer to our questions, be assured there shall be violence both meant and done.”