This is no Father Dominic: no huge overgrown
Abbey lubber.--Spanish Friar.
Who can depict the feelings of Sir Osborne Maurice as he found himself
riding on towards that court where, with the ardour of youthful hope,
he doubted not to retrieve the fortunes of his family by those
qualities which had already acquired for him an honourable fame?
Clothed once more in arms, which for five years had been his almost
constant dress, far better mounted than when he first set out,
supported by the friendship of some of the best and noblest of the
land, and furnished with a sum which he had never dreamed of
possessing, though but starting for the race, he felt as if he already
neared the goal; and looking round upon his four attendants, who were
all, as they were termed in that day, _especial stout varlets_, he
almost wished, like a real knight-errant, that some adventure would
present itself wherein he might signalise himself for the first time
in his native country.
Dame Fortune, however, was coy, and would not favour him in that sort;
and after having ridden on for half-an-hour, enjoying almost to
intoxication the deep draughts of renewed hope, he brought to his
side, by a sign, our friend Longpole, who, now promoted to the dignity
of custrel, or shield-bearer, followed with the armed servants of the
duke, carrying Sir Osborne's target and spear.
"Tell me, Longpole," said the knight, who had remarked his faithful
retainer in busy conversation with his companions, "hast thou
discovered why the duke's servants have not his grace's cognizance or
bearing, either on the breast or arm?"
"Why, it seems, your worship, that they are three stout fellows who
attended the noble duke in the wars, and they are commanded to wait
upon your worship till the duke shall have need of them. Each has his
quiver and his bow, besides his sword and pike; so if we should chance
to meet that wolf Sir Payan, or any of his under-wolves, we may well
requite them for the day's board and lodging which your worship had at
the manor. We, being five, could well match ten of them; and besides,
the little old gentleman in black velvet told me that your worship
would be fortunate in all things for two months after you got out; but
that after that he could not say, for----"
"What little gentleman in black are you speaking of?" interrupted the
knight. "You forget I do not know whom you mean."
"Ay, true, your worship," answered Longpole. "I forgot you were locked
up all that while. But you must know that when Sir Payan returned
yesterday he brought with him a little gentleman dressed in a black
velvet doublet and crimson hose; but so small, so small he would be
obliged to stand on tip-toe to look me into a tankard. Well, Sir Payan
sent for me, and questioned me a great deal about the young lady who
had been in with you; and he thought himself vastly shrewd; for
certain he is cunning enough to cheat the devil out of a bed and a
supper any day; but I did my best to blind him, and then he asked me
for the key, and said he would keep it himself. So I was obliged to
give up the only way I had of helping your worship; for I saw by that
that Sir Payan suspected me, and would not trust me any more near you,
which indeed he did not. Well, he made a speech to the little
gentleman, and then left the room; and I suppose I looked at the
bottom of my wits, for the little fellow says to me, 'Heartley!
there's a window as well as a door.' So I started, first to find he
knew my name, and secondly because he knew what I was thinking about.
However, I thought there was no use to be angry with a man for picking
my pocket of my thoughts without my knowing it; so I took it quietly,
and answered, 'I know there is; but how shall I make him understand
what he is to do?' 'Tell me what it is,' said he, 'and I will show you
how.' So I don't know why, because he might have been a great cheat,
but I told him; and thereupon he took a bit of parchment from his
pocket, it might be half a skin, and a bit of whitish wax it looked
like, out of a bottle, and made as if he wrote upon the parchment; but
the more he wrote the less writing I could see. However, he gave me
the piece of parchment, and told me to throw it in at the window after
dark, with a heap more. I resolved to try, for I began to guess that
the little old gentleman was a conjuror; and when I got into the dark,
I found that the paper was all shining like a stinking fish; and your
lordship knows the rest."
"He is an extraordinary man," said Sir Osborne. "But did you never
hear your father speak of Sir Cesar?"
"I have heard my good dad talk about one Sir Cesar," said Longpole,
"but I did not know that this was he. If I had I would have thanked
him for many a kind turn he did for the two old folks while I was
away. But does your worship see those heavy towers standing up over
the trees to the left? That is the Benedictine Abbey, just out of
Canterbury."
"That is where I am going," replied the knight, "if that be
Wilsbourne."
"Wilsbourne or St. Cummin," answered Longpole; "they call it either.
The abbot is a good man, they say, which is something to say for an
abbot, as days go. Your abbey is a very silent discreet place; 'tis
like purgatory, where a man gets quit of his sins without the devil
knowing anything about it."
"Nay, nay, you blaspheme the cloister, Longpole," said the knight. "I
have heard a great deal spoken against the heads of monasteries; but I
cannot help thinking that as most men hate their superiors, some of
the monks would be sure to blazon the sins of those above them, if
they had so many as people say."
"Faith, they are too cunning a set for that," replied Longpole. "They
have themselves a proverb, which goes to say, 'Let the world wag, do
your own business, and always speak well of the lord abbot; so you
shall feed well, and fare well, and sleep, while tolls the matin
bell.' But your worship must turn up here, if you are really going to
the abbey."
The knight signified that such was certainly his intention; and
turning up the lane that led across to the abbey, in about a quarter
of an hour he arrived at a little open green, bordered by the high
wall that surrounded the gardens. The lodge, forming, as it were, part
of the wall itself, stood exactly opposite, looking over the green,
with its heavy wooden doors and small loophole windows. To it Longpole
rode forward, and rang the bell; and on the appearance of an old
stupid-faced porter, the knight demanded to see the lord abbot.
"You can see him at vespers in the church, if you like to go, any
day," said the profound janitor, whose matter-of-fact mind
comprehended alone the mere meaning of each word.
"But I cannot speak with him at vespers," said the knight. "I have a
letter for him from his grace of Buckingham, and must speak with him."
"That is a different case," said the porter; "you said you wanted to
see the abbot, not to speak to him. But come in."
"I cannot come in without you open the other gate," said the knight.
"How can my horse pass, old man?"
"Light down, then!" said the porter. "I shall not let in horses here,
unless it be my lord abbot's mule, be you who you will."
"Then you will take the consequences of not letting me in," replied
the knight, "for I shall not light down from my horse till I am in the
court."
"Then you will stay out," said the old man, very quietly shutting the
door, much to Sir Osborne's indignation and astonishment. For a
moment, he balanced whether he should ride on without farther care, or
whether he should again make an attempt upon the obdurate porter. A
moment, however, determined him to choose the latter course; and
catching the bell-rope, he rang a very sufficient peal. Nobody
appeared, and angry beyond all patience, the knight again clapped his
hand to the rope, muttering, "If you won't hear, old man, others
shall;" and pulling for at least five minutes, he made the whole place
echo with the din.
He was still engaged in this very sonorous employment, when the door
was again opened by the porter, and a monk appeared, dressed simply in
the loose black gown of St. Benedict, with the cowl, scapulary, and
other vestments of a brother of the order.
"I should think, sir knight," said he, "that you might find some
better occupation than in disturbing myself and brethren here, walking
in our garden, without offending you or any one."
"My good father," answered Sir Osborne, "it is I who have cause to be
angry, rather than any one else. I came here for the purpose of
rendering a slight service to my lord abbot, and am bearer of a letter
from his grace of Buckingham; and your uncivil porter shuts your gate
in my face, because I do not choose to dismount from my horse, and
leave my attendants without, though I know not how long it may be
convenient for your superior to detain me."
"You have done wrong," said the monk, turning to the porter; "first,
in refusing to open the gate, next, in telling me what was false about
it. Open the great gates, and admit the knight and his train. I shall
remember this in the penance."
The old porter dared not murmur, but he dared very well be slow, and
he contrived to be nearly half an hour in the simple operation of
drawing the bolts and bars, and opening the gates, which the good monk
bore with much greater patience than the knight, who had fondly
calculated upon reaching the village of Sithenburn that night, and who
saw the day waning fast in useless retardation.
At length, however, the doors unclosed, and he rode into the avenue
that led through the gardens to the back of the abbey, the monk
preparing to walk beside his horse. A feeling, however, of respect for
a certain mildness and dignity in the old man's manner, induced him to
dismount; and giving his horse to one of the servants, he entered into
conversation with his conductor, while, as they went along, his
clanging step and glistening arms called several of the brethren from
their meditative sauntering, to gaze at the strange figure of an armed
knight within their peaceful walls.
"Surely, father," said Sir Osborne, as they walked on, his mind drawn
naturally to such thoughts, "the silent quietude of the scene, and the
calm tranquillity of existence which you enjoy here, would more than
compensate for all the fleeting unreal pleasures of the world, without
even the gratification of those holy thoughts that first call you to
this retirement?"
"There are many who feel it so, my son, and I among them," answered
the old man; "but yet, do not suppose that human nature can ever
purify itself entirely of earthly feelings. Hopes, wishes, and
necessities produce passions even here: pettier, it is true, because
the sphere is pettier. But, depend upon it, no society can ever be so
constructed as to eradicate the evil propensities of man's nature, or
even their influence, without entirely circumscribing his communion
with his fellows. He must be changed, or solitary: must have no
objects to excite, or no passions to be excited: he must be a hermit
or a corpse; have a desert or the grave."
"'Tis a bad account of human nature," said the knight. "I had fancied
that such feelings as you speak of were unknown here: that, at all
events, religious sentiments would correct and overcome them."
"They do correct, my son, though they cannot overcome them," said the
monk. "I spoke of monastic life merely as a human institution; and
even in that respect we are likely to meet with more tranquillity
within such walls as these than perhaps anywhere else, because the
persons who adopt such a state from choice are generally those of a
calm and placid disposition, and religion easily effects the rest. But
there are others, driven by disappointment, by satiety, by caprice, by
fear, by remorse, by even pride; and urged by bad feelings from the
first, those bad feelings accompany them still, and act as a leaven
amongst those with whom they are thus forced to consort. Even when it
is but sorrow that, weaning from worldly pleasure, brings a brother
here, often the sorrow leaves him, and the taste for the world
returns, when an irrevocable vow has torn him from it for ever; or
else, if his grief lasts, it becomes a black and brooding melancholy,
as different from true religion as even the mad gaiety of the
thoughtless crowd. There was a youth here, not long ago, who was wont
to call the matin bell _the knell of broken hearts_. Others, again,
circumscribed in the range of their feelings, become irascible from
the very restraint, and vent their irritability on all around them."
"But example in the superior does much," said the knight; "and I have
heard that your lord abbot----"
"Whether you are about to praise or blame," said the monk, "stop! I am
the abbot. If it were praise you were about to speak I could not hear
it silently; if 'twere blame, I would fain save you the pain of
uttering to my own ears what many doubtless say behind my back."
"Indeed, my lord abbot," answered the knight, "I had nothing to speak
but praise; and had it been blame, I would sooner have said it to
yourself than to one of your monks. But to the business which brings
me hither. His grace the Duke of Buckingham, by this letter, commends
him to your lordship; and knowing that I purpose journeying to the
court, he has desired me to conduct, and protect with my best power, a
young lady, whose name I forget, till I have rendered her safely to
her royal mistress, Queen Katherine."
"I thank you for the trouble you have already taken, my son. We will
in to the scriptorium," said the abbot; "and when I have perused his
grace's letter, will have the lady informed that you are here."
Although that art was rapidly advancing which soon after entirely
superseded the necessity of manual transcription for multiplying
books, yet the scriptorium, or copying-room, was still not only to be
found, but was also still employed for its original purpose, in almost
every abbey or monastery of consequence. In that of the Benedictines
of Wilsbourne, it was a large oblong chamber, vaulted with low Gothic
arches, and divided into various small compartments by skreens of
carved oak. Each of these possessed its table and writing apparatus;
and in more than one, when Sir Osborne entered, was to be seen a monk
copying some borrowed manuscript for the use of the abbey. The
approach of the abbot, whose manners seemed to possess a great deal of
primeval simplicity, did not in the least derange the copyists in
their occupation; and it is probable that, when unengaged in the
immediate ministry of his office, he did not exact that ceremonious
reverence to which the mitred abbot was by rank entitled.
In politeness, as in everything else, there are of course various
shades of difference very perceptible to observation, yet hardly
tangible by language: thus, when the abbot had read the Duke of
Buckingham's letter, the character which it gave of Sir Osborne caused
a very discernible change to take place in his manner, though in what
it consisted it would be difficult to say. He had always been polite,
but his politeness became warmer: when he spoke it was with a smile;
and, in short, it was evidently an alteration in his mind, from the
mere feeling of general benevolence which inhabits every good bosom,
to the sort of individual kindness which can only follow some degree
of acquaintance. He expressed much gratification at the idea of Lady
Katrine Bulmer having the advantage of the knight's escort, more
especially, he said, as the news from Rochester became worse and
worse. But Sir Osborne, he continued, had better speak with the lady
herself, when they could form such arrangements as might be found
convenient; for Lady Katrine had a good deal of the light caprice of
youth, and loved to follow her own fantasies. He then sent some
directions to the prior concerning matters of discipline, and gave
orders that the attendants of Sir Osborne should be brought to the
hospitaler, whose peculiar charge it was to entertain guests and
strangers; and this being done, he led the way towards that part of
the abbey which contained the sisters of the order, preceded by a monk
bearing a large key.
Separated throughout by a wall of massy masonry, no communication
existed between the two portions of the building, except by a small
iron door, the key of which always remained with the abbot, and by
some underground communications, as it was whispered, the knowledge of
which was confined also to his bosom. Of these subterranean chambers
many dark tales of cruelty and unheard-of penances were told as having
happened in former ages, when monastic sway had its full ascendant;
but even their very existence was now doubtful; and when any one
mentioned them before the abbot he only smiled, as a man will do at
the tales of wonder that amaze a child. However that may be, the way
by which he led the young knight to the female side of the monastery
was simply through the cloisters; and having arrived at the door of
communication, he took the key from the bearer, unlocked it himself,
and making the knight pass into the cloister on the other side, he
locked the door and rejoined him.
The place in which they now were was a gloomy arcade, surrounding a
small square court, in the centre of which appeared a statue of
Scholastica, the sister of Saint Benedict; and several almost childish
ornaments evinced the pious designs of the good sisters to decorate
their patroness. But, notwithstanding all their efforts, it was a
dreary spot. The pointed arches of the cloister resting upon pillars
of scarce a foot in height; the thick embellishments of stone-work
forming almost what heralds would call a _bordure fleurée_ round the
archways; together with the towering height of the buildings round
about, took away the scanty light that found its way into deep
recesses of the double aisle, and buried all the second or inner row
of arches in profound shadow.
Another small door appeared on the left of the abbot, who still held
the key in his hand; but stopping, he pointed along the cloister to
the right, and said, "My son, I must here leave you, for I go to my
sister's apartment, to have the lady called to the grate, and no
layman must pass here; but if you follow that arcade round the court
till you see a passage leading again towards the light (you cannot
miss your way), you will come to the convent court, as it is called,
and exactly opposite you will find a door which leads to the grate.
There I will rejoin you."
The knight followed the lord abbot's direction; and proceeding round
the first side of the square, was turning into the second, when he
thought he saw the flutter of a white garment in the shadowy part of
the inner aisle. "It is some nun," thought he: but a moment's
reflection brought to his mind that the habit of the Benedictines was
always black; and it may be that curiosity made him take a step or two
somewhat faster than he did before.
"Open the door, and make haste, Geraldine," said a female voice, in a
low tone, but one that, nevertheless, reverberated by the arches,
reached the knight's ears quite distinctly enough for him to hear the
lady proceed.
"He must be on horseback, I think, by the quickness of his pace and
the clanking of his hoofs. Cannot you open it? Run across the court,
then, silly wench, quick! or Gogmagog will have you;" and with a light
laugh, the lady of the white robe darted out from the archway, and
tripped gracefully across the court, with her long veil flowing back
from her head as she ran, and showing fully the beautiful brown hair
with which it was mingled, and the beautiful sunny face which it was
meant to hide, but which, fully conscious of its own loveliness, was
now turned with a somewhat playful, somewhat inquisitive, somewhat
coquettish glance, towards the knight.
Following close behind her was a pretty young woman, dressed as a
servant-maid, who ran on without looking to the right or left, and
who, probably being really frightened, almost tumbled over her
mistress, not perceiving that she slackened her pace as she reached
the other side of the court. It thus happened that she trod on the
young lady's foot, who uttered a slight cry, and leaned upon the
servant for support.
As may be imagined, Sir Osborne was by her side in a moment,
expressing his hopes that she was not hurt, and tendering his services
with knightly gallantry; but the lady suddenly drew herself up, made
him a low curtsey, and stiffly thanking him for his attention, walked
slowly to the door by which the abbot had entered.
Not very well pleased with the reception his politeness had met, the
knight proceeded on his way, and easily found the passage which the
abbot had described, leading, as he had been told into the larger
court, exactly opposite the door by which visitors were usually
admitted. This door, as usual, stood open; and mounting the steps, Sir
Osborne proceeded on into a small room beyond, separated from the
parlour by a carved oak partition, in the centre of which was placed
the trellis-work of gilded iron called the grate.
Nobody appearing on the other side, Sir Osborne cast himself upon the
bench with which one side of the room was furnished, and waited
patiently for the appearance of the lady, abandoning now, of
necessity, the idea of proceeding farther that night. After having
waited for a few minutes, a light step met his ear; and without much
surprise, for he had already guessed what was the fact, he saw the
same lady approach the grate whom he had met in the court. Rising
thereupon from his seat, he advanced to the partition, and bowed low,
as if to a person he had never seen. The lady, on her part, made him a
low curtsey, and both remained silent.
"I am here," said the knight, after a long pause, "to receive the
commands of Lady Katrine Bulmer, if I have now the honour of speaking
to her?"
"My name is Bulmer, sir knight," replied the lady, "and eke Katrine,
and some folks call me lady, and some mistress; but by what my lord
abbot and my lady abbess just tell me, it seems that I am to receive
your commands rather than you to receive mine."
"Very far from it, madam," said the knight; "you have but to express
your wishes, and they shall be obeyed."
"There now!" cried the lady, with an air of mock admiration; "sir
knight, you are the flower of courtesy! Then you do not positively
insist on my getting up at five to-morrow morning to set out, as my
lord abbot informed me? A thing I never did in my life, and which,
please God, I never will do!"
"I insisted upon nothing, madam," answered the knight, "I only
informed my lord abbot that it would be more convenient to me to
depart as speedily as possible; and I ventured to hint that if you
knew of how much importance it might be for me to arrive at the court
soon, you would gratify me by using all the despatch which you might
with convenience to yourself."
"Then it is of importance to you?" demanded the lady; "that changes
the case. Name the hour, sir knight, and you shall find me ready. But
you know not what a good horsewoman I am; I can make long journeys and
quick ones."
"Not less than two days will suffice, I fear," said the knight; "the
first day we may halt at Gravesend."
"Halt!" exclaimed the lady, laughing, and turning to her woman, who
stood at a little distance behind, "do you hear that? Halt! He talks
to me as if I were a soldier. Tell me, Geraldine, is it possible that
I look like a pikeman?"
"Not any way like a soldier," replied the knight, sufficiently amused
with her liveliness and beauty to forget her pertness; "not any way
like a soldier, unless it be one of heaven's host."
"Gracious heaven!" cried the lady, "he says pretty things. Only think
of a man in armour being witty! But really, sir knight, it frightens
me to see you all wrapped up in horrid steel. Can it possibly be that
these Rochester shipwrights are so outrageous as to require a belted
knight with lance in rest for the escort of a simple girl like me?"
"Men are wont to guard great treasures with even superfluous care,"
replied Sir Osborne. The lady made him a very profound curtsey, and he
proceeded: "This was most probably the lord abbot's reason for sending
to request some escort from the Duke of Buckingham; for though I hear
of some riot or tumult at Rochester, I cannot suppose it very serious.
However, all I know is this, that the right reverend father did send
while I was there jousting in the park; and understanding that I was
about to proceed to London, his grace resigned to me the honour of
conducting you safely thither."
"What, then! you are not one of the duke's own knights?" exclaimed
Lady Katrine.
"I am no one's knight," replied Sir Osborne with a smile, "except it
be the king's and yours, if such you will allow me to be."
"Oh, that I will!" answered the lady. "I should like a tame knight
above anything; but in troth, I have spoken to you somewhat too
lightly, sir." She proceeded more gravely: "From what my lord uncle
abbot told me, I judged the duke had sent me one of his household
knights,[6] men who, having forty pounds a year, have been forced to
receive a slap on the shoulder for the sake of the herald's fee; and
then, having nought to do that may become the sir, they pin themselves
to the skirts of some great man's robe, to do both knightly and
unknightly service."
"Such am not I, fair lady," replied Sir Osborne, a little piqued that
she could even have supposed so. "I took my knighthood in the
battle-plain, from the sword of a great monarch; and so long as I live
my service shall never be given but to my lady, my king, or my God!"
"Nay, nay, do not look so fierce, man in armour," answered Lady
Katrine, relapsing into her merriment. "Both from your manner and your
mien, I should have judged differently, if I had thought but for a
moment; but do not you see, I never think? I take a thing for granted,
and then go on acting upon it as if it were really true. But, as I
said, you shall be my knight, and before we reach the court I doubt
not I shall have a task to give you, and a guerdon for your pains, if
the good folks of Rochester do not cut our throats in the mean while.
But what hour did you say, sir knight, for setting out? for here my
poor wenches have to make quick preparations of all my habits."
"I have named no hour," replied Sir Osborne; "but if you will do me
the honour to let me know when you are ready tomorrow, my horses shall
stand saddled from six in the morning."
"But how am I to let you know?" demanded the lady, "unless I take hold
of the bell-rope, and ring matins on the convent bell; and then all
the good souls will wink their eyes, and think the sun has turned
lie-a-bed. Dear heart! sir knight, you do not suppose that the monks
and the nuns come running in and out between the two sides of the
abbey, like the busy little ants in their wonderful small cities? No,
no, no! none comes in here but my lord abbot and an old confessor or
two, so deafened with the long catalogue of worldly sins that they
would not hear my errand, much less do it. But now I think of it,
there is a good lay sister; her I will bribe with a silver piece to
risk purgatory by going round to the front gate of the abbey, and
telling the monk when I am ready. And now, good sir knight, I must go
back to my lord abbot, and fall down upon my knees and beg pardon; for
I left him so offended that he would not come down with me, because I
was pert about going early. Farewell! Judge not harshly of me till
to-morrow; perhaps then I may give you cause; who knows?"
Thus saying, she tripped lightly away with a gay saucy toss of the
head, like a spoiled child, too sure of pleasing to be heedful about
doing so. As she turned away, the maid advanced to the grate, and
informed Sir Osborne that the lord abbot would meet him at the place
where they had parted, upon which information the knight retrod his
steps to the little court of the cloisters, where he found the abbot
pacing up and down, with a grave and thoughtful countenance.
"I am afraid, Sir Osborne Maurice," said he, as the knight approached,
"that the young lady you have just left has not demeaned herself as I
could have wished, towards you; for she left me in one of those
flighty moods which I had good hope would have been cured by her stay
in the convent."
"She expected to find you still with the lady abbess," said Sir
Osborne, avoiding the immediate subject of the abbot's inquiry; "and
went with the intention of suing for pardon of your lordship, having
given you, she said, some offence."
"I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!" said the monk; "for then
she is penitent, which is all that God requires of us, and all that we
can require of others. Indeed her heart is good; and though she
commits many a fault, yet she repents the moment after, and would fain
amend it. But come, sir knight! Though our own rules are strict, we
must show our hospitality to strangers; and I hope our refectioner has
taken care to remember that you will partake the fare of my table
to-night. But first you had better seek your chamber, and disencumber
yourself of this armour, which, though very splendid, must be very
heavy. Ho! brother Francis, tell the hospitaller to come hither and
conduct the knight to his apartment."
While this short conversation was taking place, the abbot had led Sir
Osborne back into the cloisters on the male side of the building; and
proceeding slowly along towards the wing in which was the scriptorium,
and other apartments of general use, they were soon met by the
hospitaller, who led the knight to a neat small chamber, furnished
with a bed, a crucifix, and a missal. Here the worthy officer of the
convent essayed with inexpert hands to disengage the various pieces of
the harness, speaking all the while, and asking a thousand idle
questions with true monastic volubility, without giving Sir Osborne
either time to hear or to reply.
"Stay, stay!" said the knight at length, as the old man endeavoured to
unbuckle the cuissards; "you cannot do it, my good father; and
besides, it is an unworthy task for such a holy man as you."
"Not in the least, my son, not in the least!" replied the monk. "But,
as I was saying, I dare say you have heard how the lord mayor and his
men went to Hogsden Lane, especially if you have been lately in
London; or have you been down in Cornwall, allaying the Cornish
tumultuaries? A-well, a-well! it is very odd I cannot get that buckle
out; though, perhaps, my son, you can tell me whether the prior of
Gloucester has embraced the mitigated rule instead of the severe; and
indeed the mitigated is severe enough: four days' fast in the week! If
the Duke of Buckingham were to send us another fat buck, as he did
last year: but I forget, it is not the season. Alack, alack! all
things have their times and seasons, and truly I am of the season of
old age; though, God help us all! I believe I must call your
shield-bearer, for I cannot get the buckle out."
"Do so, my good father," said the knight, glad enough to get rid of
him; "and bid him bring my casque hither."
Accordingly, our friend Longpole was soon brought to Sir Osborne's
chamber, and by his aid the knight easily freed himself from that
beautiful armour, which we, who are in the secret of all men's minds,
may look upon as in a great degree a present from the Duke of
Buckingham, although Sir Osborne himself did not begin to suspect that
the just and the prizes had been entirely given to furnish him with
money and arms, till the lapse of two or three days allowed calm
consideration to show him the events in their true colours.
After once more admiring for a moment or two the beauty of the suit,
and having given directions for its being carefully cleansed of all
damp that it might have acquired on the road, he descended to the
table of the lord abbot, which he found handsomely provided for his
entertainment.
To the wine, however, and the costly viands with which it was spread,
the abbot himself did little justice, observing almost the rigid
abstinence of an ascetic; but to compensate for his want of good
fellowship, the prior and sub-prior, who shared the same table, found
themselves called upon to press the stranger to his food, and to lead
the way.