Sir John looked about him and sniffed.

“Now, Jeffrey, would you think that you were in a monk’s cell or in some great dame’s bower?  Hunt under the table, man; sure, you will find her lute and needlework.  Whose portrait is that, think you?” and he pointed to the Magdalene.

“A sinner turning saint, I think, master.  Good company for laymen when she was sinner, and good for priests now that she is saint.  For the rest, I could snore well here after a cup of yon red wine,” and he jerked his thumb towards a long-necked bottle on a sideboard.  “Also, the fire burns bright, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that it is made of dry oak from your Sticksley Wood.”

“How know you that, Jeffrey?” asked Sir John.

“By the grain of it, master—­by the grain of it.  I have hewn too many a timber there not to know.  There’s that in the Sticksley clays which makes the rings grow wavy and darker at the heart.  See there.”

Sir John looked, and swore an angry oath.

“You are right, man; and now I come to think of it, when I was a little lad my old grandsire bade me note this very thing about the Sticksley oaks.  These cursed monks waste my woods beneath my nose.  My forester is a rogue.  They have scared or bribed him, and he shall hang for it.”

“First prove the crime, master, which won’t be easy; then talk of hanging, which only kings and abbots, ‘with right of gallows,’ can do at will.  Ah! you speak truth,” he added in a changed voice; “it is a lovely chamber, though not good enough for the holy man who dwells in it, since such a saint should have a silver shrine like him before the altar yonder, as doubtless he will do when ere long he is old bones,” and, as though by chance, he trod upon his lord’s foot, which was somewhat gouty.

Round came Sir John like the Blossholme weathercock on a gusty day.

“Clumsy toad!” he yelled, then paused, for there within the arras, that had been lifted silently, stood a tall, tonsured figure clothed in rich furs, and behind him two other figures, also tonsured, in simple black robes.  It was the Abbot with his chaplains.

“Benedicite!” said the Abbot in his soft, foreign voice, lifting the two fingers of his right hand in blessing.

“Good-day,” answered Sir John, while his retainer bowed his head and crossed himself.  “Why do you steal upon a man like a thief in the night, holy Father?” he added irritably.

“That is how we are told judgment shall come, my son,” answered the Abbot, smiling; “and in truth there seems some need of it.  We heard loud quarrelling and talk of hanging men.  What is your argument?”

“A hard one of oak,” answered old Sir John sullenly.  “My servant here said those logs upon your fire came from my Sticksley Wood, and I answered him that if so they were stolen, and my reeve should hang for it.”

“The worthy man is right, my son, and yet your forester deserves no punishment.  I bought our scanty store of firing from him, and, to tell truth, the count has not yet been paid.  The money that should have discharged it has gone to London, so I asked him to let it stand until the summer rents come in.  Blame him not, Sir John, if, out of friendship, knowing it was naught to you, he has not bared the nakedness of our poor house.”