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One day a story-teller came to the monastery, and, like all the others, he was heartily welcomed and given a great deal more than his need. He said that his name was Cairide', and that he had a story to tell which could not be bettered among the stories of Ireland. The abbot's eyes glistened when he heard that. He rubbed his hands together and smiled on his guest.
We could not understand this, nor why the light was thrown from outside and above instead of from inside the flying machine, but the explanation may be found in the immense heat that must have been required to generate the light, since it illuminated the entire country for fifty miles or so, and we were able to read without trouble the fine print of the abbot's rubric.
The interior of the tower is occupied by a double-arched cloister, with arcades of exquisite first-pointed work, through which one looks down into the little court below. The visitor passes from this into the ruins of the abbot's chapel, to which the relics were transferred for security from the church of St.
Her heart gave a great leap, then stood still. Perhaps there was a flicker in the Abbot's undertone; his lips may have been dry; but his courage was beyond proof. He held on. Isoult was blanched as a cloth; lips, fingers and ears, the tongue in her open mouth all creeks for the blood were ebbed dry. Her awful eyes, fixed and sombre stars, threatened to gulf her in their dark.
Well, it 'ud be just about a quarter to two this morning when a tall, well-built gentleman comes out of Orchard Street and made for my cab. I jumps down and opens the door for him. 'You know St. Mary Abbot's Church, Kensington? he says as he got in. 'Drive me down there and pull up at the gate. So, of course, I ran him down, and there he got out, give me five bob, and off he went.
"My name is Piero Maironi," Benedetto answered; "but here at the monastery they call me Benedetto." And he made a movement to take the Abbot's hand and kiss it. "One moment," said the Abbot, frowning, withdrawing and raising his hand. "What are you doing here?" "I work in the kitchen garden," Benedetto replied. "Fool!" exclaimed the Abbot. "I ask what you are doing here outside my door?"
A grave is no place for you, Satan, but I wish you were in it with me, Emlyn. You must have been a witch, since, after you, I could never fancy any other woman, which is against nature, for all's fish that comes to a man's net. Evidently a witch of the worst sort, but, my darling, witch or no I wish you weren't dead, and I'll break that Abbot's neck for you yet, if it costs me my soul. Oh!
He was always talking about it, especially when we were in America. He liked to try and make the Pilgrim-Father- families jealous. Just as he used to boast that if he had only been born three minutes before my father, instead of three minutes after, he would have been the owner of Abbot's Manor.
The Sub-Prior readily obeyed the first part of the Abbot's injunction, but paused upon the second "It is Friday, most reverend," he said in Latin, desirous that the hint should escape, if possible, the ears of the stranger. "We are travellers," said the Abbot, in reply, "and viatoribus licitum est You know the canon a traveller must eat what food his hard fate sets before him.
Clad in a white cowl, with long sleeves and a gold button on his hood, his abbot's cross on his breast, his head covered with an old French mitre of low form, Dom Etienne, with his broad shoulders, his greyish beard, his ruddy colour, had a look of an old Burgundian, tanned by the sun while working at his vines; he seemed, moreover, a good sort of man, uneasy under his mitre, oppressed by his honours.
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