Still, he mistrusted him of Charles Smith, and his bloody spurs, and had he not been so short-handed and taken the knave’s broad pieces would have liked to set him ashore again when they were driven back into the river, especially as he heard that there had been man-slaying about Blossholme, and that Sir John Foterell lay slaughtered in the forest.  Perhaps this Charles Smith had murdered him.  Well, if so, it was no affair of his, and he could not spare a hand.

Now, when at length the weather had moderated, just as he was hauling up his anchor, comes the Abbot of Blossholme, on whose will he had been bidden to wait, with a lean-faced monk and another passenger, said to be a sick religious, wrapped up in blankets and to all appearance dead.

Why, wondered that astute mariner Goody, should a sick monk wear harness, for he felt it through the blankets as he helped him up the ladder, although monk’s shoes were stuck upon his feet.  And why, as he saw when the covering slipped aside for a moment, was his crown bound up with bloody cloths?

Indeed, he ventured to question the Abbot as to this mysterious matter while his Lordship was paying the passage money in his cabin, only to get a very sharp answer.

“Were you not commanded to obey me in all things, Captain Goody, and does obedience lie in prying out my business?  Another word and I will report you to those in Spain who know how to deal with mischief-makers.  If you would see Dunwich again, hold your peace.”

“Your pardon, my Lord Abbot,” said Goody; “but things go so upon this ship that I grow afraid.  That is an ill voyage upon which one lifts anchor twice in the same port.”

“You will not make them go better, captain, by seeking to nose out my affairs and those of the Church.  Do you desire that I should lay its curse upon you?”

“Nay, your Reverence, I desire that you should take the curse off,” answered Goody, who was very superstitious.  “Do that and I’ll carry a dozen sick priests to Spain, even though they choose to wear chain shirts—­for penance.”

The Abbot smiled, then, lifting his hand, pronounced some words in Latin, which, as he did not understand them, Goody found very comforting.  As they passed his lips the Great Yarmouth began to move, for the sailors were hoisting up her anchor.

“As I do not accompany you on this voyage, fare you well,” he said.  “The saints go with you, as shall my prayers.  Since you will not pass the Gibraltar Straits, where I hear many infidel pirates lurk, given good weather your voyage should be safe and easy.  Again farewell.  I commend Brother Martin and our sick friend to your keeping, and shall ask account of them when we meet again.”

I pray it may not be this side of hell, for I do not like that Spanish Abbot and his passengers, dead or living, thought Goody to himself, as he bowed him from the cabin.