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Updated: May 9, 2025
Prior Robert Crowham looked at him a moment with pursed lips; and then shook his head violently. "No, no," he said. "I I must see to the house." The monk looked at Chris. "May I go, my Lord Prior?" he asked. The Prior stared at him a moment, in a desperate effort to fix his attention; then nodded sharply and wheeled round to the door that led to the upper rooms. "Mother of God!" he said.
There they all were; from Lanzo of five centuries ago, whose arms were conjectural, down to Robert Crowham, who had forsaken his trust; telling the long tale of prelates and monastic life, from the beginning to the close. He looked round beyond the circle of light cast by his own candle, and the place seemed full of ghosts and presences to his fancy.
Sir James patted his son on the knee, and reassured him. "Prior Crowham is a very holy man, I think; but but somewhat delicate. However their designs have come to nothing. The bishop is in glory; and the other more courageous than he was." Chris also had a few words with Mr. Carleton before he went to bed, sitting where he had sat in the moonlight two years before.
Prior Crowham was a cultivated, well-bred man, not over strong-willed, but courteous and sympathetic. He turned a little to Chris in his carved chair, as he laid the letter down. "Well," he said, smiling, "it is for you to choose whether you will offer yourself. Of course, there is uneasiness abroad, as this letter says, but what then?"
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