V.

When baptized Christian men did steal the children of other Christian

men, yea, and torture and slay them, no marvel was it that the

unconverted Israelites, who had been allowed to come into the land in

great numbers since the Norman conquest, should do deeds of the like

sort. So it was, that in King Stephen's reign the rich Jews of Norwich

did buy a Christian child from its poor parents a little before Easter,

and on the Long Friday, when the church was mourning for the crucifixion

of our Lord, they tortured him after the same manner as our Lord was

tortured, and did nail him on a rood in mockery of our Saviour; and

afterwards buried him. These sacrilegious and cruel Jews thought that

their horrible crime would be concealed, but it was revealed from above,

and the people of Norwich smote the Jews and tortured them as they

merited; and the Lord showed that the Christian child was a holy martyr:

and the monks took him and buried him with all honour and reverence in

Norwich Minster; and he is called Saint William, and through our Lord

wonderful miracles are wrought at his tomb even in our own day, and his

festival is kept with becoming solemnity on the twenty-fifth of the

kalends of March.

Sad and sinful was it for Christian parents to sell their children to

Jew, or even to Gentile. The evil practice had once been common in

England, and in the port of Bristowe children were once sold in great

numbers to be carried into Ireland and elsewhere; but the church had put

down the unnatural traffic, and when King Stephen came to the throne no

freeman would have sold his child. But want and hunger now severed the

natural tie, and starving parents sold their starving children rather

than see them die before their eyes and they unable to help them. Yea,

frantic mothers would give their infants from their dried-up breasts to

any strangers that would promise to nourish them. _Horresco repetens!_ I

do shudder in the telling of it, but so it was. Fair English children

were again sold to traffickers on the western coast, who carried them

into Ireland, and in such numbers that the slave-market of the Irishry

was all over-stocked with them. In the happy and plentiful days which

now be in the land such things are hard to believe; but I, as a novice,

did often see them with mine own eyes, and the causes that led

thereunto. Yea, have I seen the poor people of England roaming by the

wayside and eating garbage which scarcely the fox or the foul birds of

the air would touch, rambling in the woods and fields in search of roots

and berries, ay, grazing on the bank-side like cattle, or that great

sinner Nebuchadnezzar; for flocks and herds were swept away, and

slaughtered, and wasted by the armed bands that ever ranged the country,

or were kept penned up within the castles of the strong men--those

pestilent barons and knights that were now for Matilda and now for

Stephen, and always for plunder and all crime, living and fattening

upon great and bloody thievings--_magna et sanguineolentia latrocinia_:

and the fields could not be cultivated because of the continual passing

and repassing, and burning, and fighting, and slaying of these armed

hosts and bands of robbers, who did worse than the heathen had ever

done; for after a time they spared neither church nor churchyard,

neither a bishop's land nor an abbat's land, and not more the lands of a

priest than the fields of a franklin, but plundered both monks and

clerks! And so it came to pass that nearly every man that could, robbed

another, and carried away his wife or daughter, and did with her what he

list. If two men or three came riding to a town, all the township fled,

concluding them to be robbers. Some of our bishops and learned men

continually did excommunicate them and curse them; but the effect

thereof was nought, for they were one and all accursed, and forsworn,

and abandoned; and grieves me to say that too many bishops and churchmen

were men of violent and unsteady councils and castle-builders

themselves, waging war like the lay lords, and being as void as they of

steadiness and loyalty, and mercy for the people. Verily I myself have

seen prelates clad in armour and mounted on war-horses, even as at the

time of the Conquest, and in that guise directing the siege or the

attack, or drawing lots with the rest for the booty. The strong men

constantly laid gilds on the towns, and called it by a Norman name which

signifyeth _torture_; and when the poor townfolk had no more to give,

then they plundered and burned the towns; so that thou mightest go a

whole day's journey and never behold a man sitting in a town or see a

field that was tilled. To till the ground was as useless as to plough

the sea, for no man could hope to reap that which he sowed. Thus the

earth bare little or no corn; and bread became of a fearful dear price;

and flesh, and cheese, and butter were there none for the poor. Ay,

franklins who had been rich men, and who had kept good house and been

bountiful to the poor and to mother church, were seen begging alms on

the road. Many of the poorest died of hunger on a soil which God had

blessed with fertility, but which sinful men had turned into a

wilderness; and many, going distraught, threw themselves into the

rivers, or hanged themselves in the woods. This was greater woe than

England had witnessed during the long wars of the Norman conquest; and

it was in this abyss of misery that fathers and mothers sold their

children.

On the morning after his going to Caversham Sir Alain de Bohun returned

unto our house with the knights who had gone with him; and before it was

time to begin the service of tertia in the church, he and all the

company, as well foot as horse, marched away to the north-west. They

intended for Oxenford, but did not take the direct road; for they had

learned from scouts that Matilda's party had been strengthened by some

bands from the eastward, and Sir Alain and his friends hoped to get an

increase of strength in the westward before they turned round upon the

countess. But while the partisans of King Stephen were marching to the

westward and gaining great strength on the borders of Wiltshire, the

Countess of Anjou suddenly decamped from Oxenford and began a march for

Winchester, for she had at length conceived suspicion and alarm at the

conduct of the Bishop of Winchester, the king's brother, and our lord

the pope's legate. Intending to pass through Berkshire into Hampshire

and unto Winchester, she took her course by Cumnor, Abingdon, and

Wallingford. The news of her approach was a death-blow to our good

abbat. He had been for some time past declining. He could not away with

the thought of Matilda's evil doings unto our house. Being a man

formerly addicted to hospitality, good company, cheerful conversation,

music, and innocent mirth, he was observed to forsake all this with much

melancholy and pensiveness, and so to droop and pine away; but yet was

it the news of the countess's coming that gave the finishing stroke.

Eheu! and Miserrimus! A better monk or a nobler lord abbat was never

slain by princely violence and the wickedness of excommunicate men. He

was at Sir Alain de Bohun's castle, and I and Philip the lay-brother

were in attendance upon him when our scouts brought the intelligence

that Matilda was at Abingdon with the heads of her columns pointing

along the road towards Reading. The good, kind-hearted man had gone to

Caversham in order to console the Ladie Alfgiva, whom he found, like

Rachel, mourning for her children, yet not mourning like one that would

not be comforted. But comfortless and sad was the face of our lord abbat

when he gave his niece the parting blessing, and warned her to look well

to her castle, and bade the warder to keep close the gates, and not

admit so much as a strange dog within the walls. There had been a slow

fever in his veins ever since the bad visit of the Angevin countess, and

now his limbs shook and his eyes seemed to swim in his head, and he had

much ado to mount the rough upland horse which had been procured for

him in lieu of his gentle-paced palfrey. "Felix, my boy," said he unto

me as we descended the slopes of Caversham towards the river, "ride

close to my bridle-hand, for I am faint, and a heavy sickness is upon my

heart." As he rode across the meads, the breeze, which blew freshly and

coolly from the broad river, did somewhat revive him; but anon he

complained of the rough motion of his steed, and gently lamented the

loss of his ambling grey, which Matilda had stolen from him so foully.

When near to the great gate of the abbey he turned round and looked

towards the river and the Caversham hills that were shining in the

setting sun; and then, as he went under the archway, I saw tears drop

from his eyes, and I heard him mutter to himself, "'Tis a right

beauteous sight, but I shall see it no more." And that night, and before

the middle watches thereof, praying for the community of Reading and all

England besides, and imploring the saints to protect the house at

Caversham and the two sweet children, he turned his face to the wall and

died, to the unspeakable grief of every honest member of the house. He

left this troubled world in such good repute as a virtuous and holy man,

that assuredly he merited beatification, if not the higher glories of

canonization.--_In Domino moritur._

Before going to his bed, our good abbat held council with all the

obedientiarii and sworn monks of the abbey, and I was of the number of

those who thought that this exertion, and his long and anxious speaking,

hastened his demise. His opinions were, that the monks ought to keep

close their gates, and call in their retainers and some of the townfolk

of Reading to help them to defend the house; that Matilda could not

tarry long for a siege or any other object, as Sir Alain de Bohun and

his party would soon retrace their steps; and that the monks, having

made good their house by standing on the defensive, should remain

neutral in the horrible war, taking no step and raising no voice either

for King Stephen or Queen Matilda, until they saw what course was taken

by the pope's legate or a synod of the church. All present at this

council, whether cloister monks or monks holding office, agreed that

this advice was the best that could be given, and protested that they

would follow it; and Hildebrand, the sub-prior, was the loudest of any

in his prayers that St. James and St. John the Evangelist, patrons of

our house, would long preserve the life of our good old abbat, who had

governed the abbey for many years with great wisdom and gentleness; and,

sooth to say, in all that time he had ruled as a fond father rules his

own children, and never did he sadden the heart of an honest man and

faithful servant of the church, or cause a tear to flow until he died.

But, woe the while! the wickedness, the treachery, and malice of the

times, had spread themselves on every side and to every community; and

some members of our once quiet and loving brotherhood there were that

hid Judas hearts under fawning countenances; and before the passing bell

ceased to toll for our abbat's death, these unhappy men took secret

council with one another, and resolved to act in a manner altogether

different from that which had been advised, and that which they had

promised and vowed to follow. And, lo! on the second evening after the

death of our good abbat, when the Angevin woman and her host came again

unto our house, like a whirlwind, with lances in the air, and clouds of

dust rolling before their path, the sub-prior and his fautors, including

as well some of the franklins and retainers, as monks and novices, and

lay brothers of the abbey, did drive away the other party, and lower our

draw-bridge, and throw wide open our great gate, and sing hosannas, and

cry, "Long live the empress-queen! God bless the sweet face of Queen

Matilda, the lawful sovereign of this realm!" And again Matilda came

within the cloisters, and took possession of our house with her lawless

men of war and her gadabout damsels. This time they could not rob, for

we had not the wherewithal, unless they took our gowns, hoods, and

sandals, and our flesh and bones; but they did worse things than steal.

Matilda ordered that on the instant the fathers of the house should

proceed to elect and appoint a new abbat.

"Dread ladie," said Reginald, our prior, now the highest in office,

"This cannot be! It is against the rules of our order; it is against the

canons of holy church; it is against the feelings of humanity; it is

contrary to common decency! Our late lord abbat lies as yet unburied

within our walls. He must be first interred honorably, and as becometh

the dignity of the house; and before we, the fathers of the house, can

open a Chapter, many masses of requiem must be said, and the guidance of

the Spirit must be invoked to help us in our election, and notice must

be sent unto the head of our order, and alms must be given unto the

poor. Albeit, I see not what alms we can give, since our house hath been

so----"

"Rebel monk," cried Matilda, "reproach not thy queen! But I do perceive

that thou art a fautor of Stephen, like the old rebel that hath

departed. I told him that the mitre was falling from his head, and I now

tell thee that it shall never drop upon thine."

"Would that it had pleased the saints to keep it on the head which wore

it so long, and with so much honour," said our bold prior. "I never

aimed at it, or had a wish for it. I would not stoop my body, or stretch

out my hand, to pick it up, if it lay at my feet. I would never wear it

except forced so to do by canonical election, and the free and strong

will of my brothers. Matilda, thou that ransackest houses of religion,

and the very tomb of thy father, and tramplest on the monks that live to

pray for the soul of thy father, I would not accept the mitre and

crozier from thee if thou wert to fall on thy knees and implore me to do

it! I stand here as an humble but faithful servant of this community--as

a lowly member of the great family of St. Benedict; and if I raise my

voice, it is only for the sake of our religion and unchangeable rules.

Thy men-at-arms need not grind their teeth, and point their lances at

me. I fear them not; and in this cause would face torture and death."

"By the splendour!" cried Matilda, "we do but waste time in speech with

such as thou art. I tell thee, thou traitor and malignant, that the

election shall be made forthwith; and that before I quit this house I

will see an honest man put into the abbatial chair, and confirm him

therein by our royal deed. Thou wilt not question, oh monk, that the

election of a Chapter is nought without the assent and confirmation of

the lawful sovereign; and as I have weighty matters in hand, and will

soon be far away from Reading, there might be great delay in obtaining

my confirmation if it were not given now."

At this passage the sub-prior, bowing before Matilda more lowly than he

was ever seen to bow before the effigies of our Ladie in the Ladie's

chapel, said yea and verily, and that this last was a weighty

consideration before which the rule of St. Benedict might, in some

points, give way; and that in times of trouble and discord and anarchy

like these we were living in, the royal abbey of Reading could not with

safety be left for a single day without a head.

This discourse of the sub-prior much chafed our fearless and honest

prior, Reginald, who well knew the man and his ungodly designs; but

before the prior's wrath allowed him to speak, our sacrist brought forth

the book and opened the rules of our order, and read the same with an

audible yet gentle voice, and with the same gentleness did show that

much time must be allowed for mature deliberation; that a Chapter could

not be assembled while the house was full of strangers and armed men,

for that elections must be free and unbiassed by fear or by any other

worldly consideration; and then he did fall to quoting the charters of

the Beauclerc, which direct that on the death of a lord abbat possession

of the monastery, with all its rights and privileges, shall remain in

the prior, and at the disposal of the prior and the monks of the

Chapter, and that none shall in any ways meddle in the election of the

new abbat: and when the sacrist had thus spoken, the cellarer or bursar,

the second father of the convent, who had charge of everything relating

to the food of the monks, and who always knew best, by the eating, who

were present and who absent, did beg it might be observed that three

cloister monks were absent, one disobediently and contumaciously

(meaning hereby Father Anselm, who had absconded with the countess on

her previous visit); but two, to wit, the chamberlain and the almoner,

on the business of the abbey--and without the votes of these two named

fathers no election could be legal or canonical.

"But my good cellarius," said the sub-prior, in a very dulcet and

persuasive tone of voice, "it yet behoves us to think of the dangers of

the times, and to provide for the security of this royal abbey and

God-fearing community, even though we should depart from the rigid

letter of some of our minor rules. Remember, oh cellarius, that these be

days of trouble, and that we be living in the midst of discord and

anarchy, and treachery, and----"

"Treachery, quotha! I wis there was no treachery in this community until

thou didst bring it amongst us," cried our prior; "nor did we know

discord or anarchy in our abbey, or in any part of the manors and

hundreds appertaining unto this house until thou, oh Matilda, didst come

to our gates! Troubles there were around us, and for those troubles the

good men of our house grieved--not without labouring to alleviate them;

but we were a quiet community when thou didst come thundering at our

gates, bringing with thee thy subtle maidens and thy violent men of war!

and hadst thou never come we had still been at peace. If thou wouldst

listen to me now, I would say Get thee gone and cease from troubling us!

But _orgeuil mesprise bon conseil_, pride despiseth good counsel, and

pride and hardness of heart will lead to thy undoing."

Tradition reporteth that the wrath of William the Conqueror was a thing

fearful to behold; that the rage of the Red King was a consuming fire;

and that the slower and stiller but deeper hate of Henry the Beauclerc

was like unto the grim visage of death; yet do I doubt whether the wrath

of all these three preceding kings, if put all together, could be so

dreadful as that which the choleric daughter of the Beauclerc did now

display: and certes the extreme passion of rage in a woman, even when

she hath not a regal and tyrannical power, is fearful to behold. From

the redness of the fire she became pale as ashes; but then she reddened

again as she shouted "Ho! my men-at-arms, gag me that old traitor!"

"Tyrannous woman, that the sins of the land have brought into England,

the truth will endure and be the same though I speak it not. Thou hast

violated the sanctuary--thou hast dishonoured and plundered the very

grave of thy father! See that he rise not from the grave to rebuke

thee."

"Drag the traitor hence; put chains upon him; cast him into the

dungeon," cried the unfaithful wife of the Angevin count; and the

men-at-arms who had laid their rude hands upon the prior to gag him, did

drag the prior out of the Aula Magna. And when he was gone, Matilda

swore oaths too terrible to be repeated, that, seeing she must herself

away on the morrow, she would leave a garrison of her fiercest fighting

men in the abbey, and devastate all the abbey lands that lay on her

march, if our fathers did not forthwith elect and appoint a lord abbat

true to her party and obedient to her will. Most of the officials and

cloister monks held down their heads and were sore afeard. Not so the

sacrist and cellarer, who cried "Charter! Charter!" and repeated that

such election could not be, and who were thereupon dragged forth and put

in duresse with the bold prior. And now the sub-prior, who never doubted

that the choice was to fall upon him, did entreat those who had the

right of voting to submit to the will of God and the commandment of the

queen, and so save the house from ruin: and some he did terrify, and

some cajole, talking apart with them, and telling them that he would be

good lord and indulgent abbat unto them all. At last the timid gave way,

and the monks of delicate conscience would resist no longer; and the

sub-prior, with a smile upon his countenance, said to Matilda, in his

blandest voice, that the community was ready to elect whomsoever her

grace might be pleased to name.

"'Tis prudent and wise in the community," said Matilda; and then she

clapped her hands thrice, as great lords or ladies use to do when they

would summon a menial or call in their fool to make them sport; and as

she clapped her hands she said, "Come in, my Lord Abbat elect!"

And then, from an inner apartment, where he had been listening all the

while, there glided into the great hall, and stood before us, with an

unblushing and complacent countenance, that rule-breaker and

deserter--Father Anselm.

I did think that our sub-prior would have fallen to the ground in a

swoon, for his legs trembled beneath him, and his face became as ashy

with grief and disappointment as that of the countess had lately been

with rage: his eye, fixed immoveably on Father Anselm, became glazed and

dull, like the eye of a dead fish, and instead of a cry of wonderment, I

heard a rattling in his throat. But in a while the sub-prior recovered,

and ventured to say that the Chapter could by no means elect one who had

broken his vow of obedience, and who was thereby under censure and

interdict.

"In absenting myself from the house, I did but obey the command laid on

me by the queen's grace," said Father Anselm.

"Not the sovereign ladie, nay, nor the sovereign lord of the land, can

give such command without the foreknowledge and consent of the Lord

Abbat, or of the prior in the abbat's absence," said the sub-prior,

whose voice was growing bolder; "and dread ladie, I tell thee again,

that the chapter cannot elect this monk--I tell thee that I myself will

protest against such choice, and defeat such election."

"Ha!" cried Matilda, "sayest thou so? Then shalt thou join the other

rebel monks. Men-at-arms, away with him! He but wanted the mitre for his

own ugly head; but my dear mass-priest, thou shalt have it, and none but

thee, for I can rely on thy faith and love, and thou art the handsomest

monk that ever shaved a crown or wore a hood." And as she spake the last

words, she looked so lovingly at him that it was a shame to see.

Well! our false and double-dealing sub-prior was whirled away to the

dungeon, and the remaining officials and cloister monks were commanded

by Matilda to begin the election of Father Anselm and finish it off

hand, the countess vowing by the visage of St. Luke that she would not

take food again until the thing was done.

The terrible threats of the countess and the subtle arguments which

Father Hildebrand, the sub-prior, had made use of, in the belief that he

was to be our abbat, had such weight with the fathers that they kissed

the jewelled hand of Matilda, and went into the chapter-house; and

there, in less time than had been wont to be spent in deliberation on

the slightest business of the house (mailed knights and fierce

men-at-arms standing by the chapter-door the while), they did name and

elect the runagate Anselm to be our lord abbat, the monks of tender

conscience merely holding up their hands in assent, and saying no word,

but uttering in their secret souls that they acted under fear and

violence, and that all this was uncanonical work and foul, and against

the rule of St. Benedict. And then they all came forth from the

chapter-house, singing _Benedictus Dominus_; and the countess and her

painted damsels looked out from the windows of the abbat's house and

laughed, and the armed and ungodly multitude set up a shout, as though

they had gained a great victory. I will not tell how, in Father Anselm's

inauguration in the church, the rules of our order, the canons, the

decretals of councils, and the bulls of the pope, were all transgressed,

or turned into a jest and mockery: these things are not to be forgotten,

but I will not relate them. Instead of a godly bishop, it was the

countess herself that placed the mitre on the head, and the ring on the

finger of Father Anselm, and that gave him the first kiss and

accolade--_Osculum Pacis_, while _Te Deum laudamus_ was being sung in

the choir; but verily was it sung in so faint and plaintive a manner,

that it sounded more like a _Miserere Domine_. But when it was over, the

intrusive abbat was kissed by all the convent, according to rule; and

_Benedicite_ having been said, Father Anselm gave thanks to the monks

for that they had chosen him, the least of them all, to be their lord

and shepherd, not on account of his own merits, but solely by the will

of God. O! sinful and sacrilegious Anselm, better had it been for thee

that thou hadst never been born!

The will of the wicked woman was thus accomplished, but it brought her

neither future worldly success nor present peace. That same night as I,

Felix the Novice, lay in my cell unable to sleep, mourning for the loss

of our good lord abbat, and ruminating on all which had since befallen

us, I heard a cry, a piercing shriek, which rang through our cloisters

and corridors, and through every part of our great abbey. Yea, as I

afterwards learned, it was heard by the prior and by those that were

with him in the prison underground. Cardiff castle did not ring and echo

with so shrill a shriek of agony when the red-hot copper basin was held

over the face of the Beauclerc's unhappy brother Duke Robert to sear his

eyes and destroy his sight, as did now the abbey of Reading, which was

mainly built in expiation of that great crime of Henricus. It was

followed by a loud call for lights--lights in the queen's sleeping

chamber. And lights were carried thither, and Matilda slept no more that

night; and before the dawn of day preparations were made for her

departure. The shriek was from her, the vision was hers. _O beate

virgine!_ save us from ill deeds and an ill conscience, and the dreams

they do bring. The vision of the Beauclerc's daughter, as it afterwards

came to my knowledge, was this:--her father appeared before her, holding

in his right hand his heart, which had not been brought to our abbey

with his body, but which had been deposited in the church of St. Mary at

Rouen, which his mother had founded; and this heart did distil great

gouts of blood, as if in agony for the wrong which had been done our

abbey, and the insults which had been heaped upon his grave; and the

face of the spectrum was menacing and awful, and the visionary voice

full of dread--the words so terrible that the countess would never

repeat them save to her confessor.

In the same watches of the night there were moans and groans in the

prison underground. Nor was it only the upbraiding of an evil conscience

that caused Hildebrand, our sub-prior, so to lament and cry out. For our

bellicose and choleric prior Reginald did beat him, and tweak him by the

nose, reviling him as a Judas Iscariot; and, peradventure, he would have

slain him outright, or have done him some great bodily harm, if the

gentler and more circumspect sacrist and cellarer had not been there to

intercede and intervene. Our prior was the strongest man that then lived

in all these parts. A terrible man in his wrath was our prior! But his

wrath was never kindled except against evil-doers, and the swinkers and

oppressors of the poor. With all others he was as gentle as a lamb, and

he was ever indulgent to error and all minor offences, as I, who lived

long under his rule, can well testify--REQUIEM ÆTERNAM.

I, Felix, having in the bye-gone times had much familiarity and

friendship with our two backsliding novices, Urswick the Whiteheaded

from Pangbourne, and John-à-Blount from Maple-Durham, did much marvel

how it fared with them since their apostacy, and did diligently seek

them out in the great press which came with the countess, to the end

that I might talk gently with them upon their transgressions, and obtain

from them some knowledge of what had become of the little Alice and my

prime friend young Arthur de Bohun, hoping hereby to gain tidings

grateful and cheerful to the ear of the good and bountiful Ladie

Alfgiva. But neither in the evening nor in the morning could I see

Urswick or John among the people of the countess. Yet in the morning,

just before the departure, I gave a bowman my only piece of money, and

learned from him that a part of Matilda's host with sundry wains and

horse-litters had not come with her unto Reading, but had taken a

shorter road for Winchester; and so I did conclude that my two quondam

comrades had gone with that company, and I did comfort myself with

thinking that they had yet so much grace left in them as to have been

averse to come back and witness our exceeding great misery. Yet did the

archer spoil this my comfort by telling me that two black-eyed damsels

had gone with that division, riding like men upon big war-horses. Of

children the man knew nought; nor he nor any man of the meaner sort had

been allowed to look into the wains or to approach the litters. There

might be children, he said, among this moveable and vagrant host, but he

had seen none. Here again did I grieve, for I loved Alice and Arthur

right well, and would have laid down an untold treasure in gold to have

it in my power to speak comfortably unto the Ladie Alfgiva.

At the command of Father Anselm the monks of the house, and we the

novices likewise, did form in processional order, and accompany Matilda

from our gates even unto the Hallowed Brook, that branch of the swift

and clear Kennet which floweth by the township; and halting on the bank

of that holy and peaceful water, which ought not to have heard such

notes, Father Anselm made us chaunt _Hosanna_ and _Jubilate_, and

promised to the Angevin countess a bloody and complete victory over all

her enemies. And hence, upon _famam vulgi_, the trifling and ungrounded

talk of the common people, who, in parts remote from Reading, knew not

the violence which had been used, it was proclaimed to the world that

the abbat and monks of Reading, in this unhappy year eleven hundred and

forty-one, had received the empress-queen with the highest honours, and

had made themselves her servants and beadsmen. _Pater de Coelis, Deus,

miserere nobis!_