Things were evidently much altered.  A novice was indeed, as usual, placed aloft in the refectory pulpit, to read aloud to the brethren during their repast, but no one seemed to think it needful to preserve the decorous silence that had been rigidly exacted during Prior Akefield’s time, and there was a continual buzz of conversation.  Lent though it was, the fish was of the most esteemed kinds, and it was evident that, like the monks of Melrose, they ‘made gude kale.’  Few of the kindly old faces that Malcolm remembered were to be seen under their cowls.  Prior Drax himself had much more the countenance of a moss-trooper than of a monk—­mayhap he was then meditating that which he afterwards carried out successfully, i.e. the capture and appropriation of a whole instalment of King James’s ransom, on its way across the Border; and there was a rude recklessness and self-indulgence about the looks, voices, and manners of the brethren he had brought with him, such as made Malcolm feel that if he had had his wish, and remained at Coldingham, he should soon have found it no haven of peace.

The lay-brothers and old servants were fixtures, but the old faithful and devout ones looked forlorn and unhappy and there had been a great importation of the ruffianly men-at-arms, whom the more pugnacious ecclesiastics, as well as nobles, of Scotland, were apt to maintain.  Guards there had been in old times, but kept under strict discipline; whereas, in the rude conduct of these men, there was no sign that they knew themselves to be in a religious house.  Malcolm, keeping aloof from these as much as might be, gave such an account of himself as was most consistent with truth, since it was necessary to account for his returning so young from his studies.  He had, he said, been told that there was an inheritance fallen due to him, and that the kinsman, in whose charge his sister had been left, was dead; and he had come home to seek her out, and inquire into the matter of his heirship.

Rude jokes, from some of the new denizens of the monastery, were spent on the improbability of his finding sister or lands; if it were in the Barony of Glenuskie, the House of Albany had taken the administration of that into their own hands.

‘Nay—­but,’ said Malcolm, ’could I but see my young Lady Lilias, she might make suit for me.’

The gray-headed lay-brother, to whom he addressed himself, replied that it was little the Lady Lilias could do, but directed him to St. Abbs to find her; whereat one of the men-at-arms burst out laughing, and crying, ‘That’s a’ that ye ken, auld Davie!  As though the Master of Albany would let a bonnie lassie ware hersel’ and her tocher on stone walls and dour old nuns.’

‘Has she wedded the Master of Albany, then?’ asked Malcolm, concealing his anxiety as best he might.

‘That’s as he pleases; and by my troth he took pains enow to get her!’

‘What pains?’