Then he strips him of his gown,
 Lays it on the altar down;
 But for himself he takes good care
 Not to show his body bare,
 But keeps a jacket, soft and thin,
 Almost a shirt, to tumble in. 
 Clothed in this supple woof of maille
 His strength and health and form showed well. 
 And when his belt is buckled fast,
 Toward the Virgin turns at last: 
 Very humbly makes his prayer;
 “Lady!” says he, “to your care
 I commit my soul and frame. 
 Gentle Virgin, gentle dame,
 Do not despise what I shall do,
 For I ask only to please you,
 To serve you like an honest man,
 So help me God, the best I can. 
 I cannot chant, nor can I read,
 But I can show you here instead,
 All my best tricks to make you laugh,
 And so shall be as though a calf
 Should leap and jump before its dam. 
 Lady, who never yet could blame
 Those who serve you well and true,
 All that I am, I am for you.”

Then he begins to jump about,
 High and low, and in and out,

Straining hard with might and main;
 Then, falling on his knees again,
 Before the image bows his face: 
 “By your pity! by your grace!”
 Says he, “Ha! my gentle queen,
 Do not despise my offering!”

In his earnestness he exerted himself until, at the end of his strength, he lay exhausted and unconscious on the altar steps.  Pleased with his own exhibition, and satisfied that the Virgin was equally pleased, he continued these devotions every day, until at last his constant and singular absence from the regular services attracted the curiosity of a monk, who kept watch on him and reported his eccentric exercise to the Abbot.

The mediaeval monasteries seem to have been gently administered.  Indeed, this has been made the chief reproach on them, and the excuse for robbing them for the benefit of a more energetic crown and nobility who tolerated no beggars or idleness but their own; at least, it is safe to say that few well-regulated and economically administered modern charities would have the patience of the Abbot of Clairvaux, who, instead of calling up the weak-minded tombeor and sending him back to the world to earn a living by his profession, went with his informant to the crypt, to see for himself what the strange report meant.  We have seen at Chartres what a crypt may be, and how easily one might hide in its shadows while mass is said at the altars.  The Abbot and his informant hid themselves behind a column in the shadow, and watched the whole performance to its end when the exhausted tumbler dropped unconscious and drenched with perspiration on the steps of the altar, with the words:—­

“Dame!” fait il, “ne puis plus ore;
 Mais voire je reviendrai encore.”

“Lady!” says he, “no more I can,
 But truly I’ll come back again!”

You can imagine the dim crypt; the tumbler lying unconscious beneath the image of the Virgin; the Abbot peering out from the shadow of the column, and wondering what sort of discipline he could inflict for this unforeseen infraction of rule; when suddenly, before he could decide what next to do, the vault above the altar, of its own accord, opened:—­