So affairs progressed up to the end of October.
It was All Saints' Day, and they held high service at Dorchester Abbey; the Chant of William of Fescamp was introduced, without any of the dire consequences which followed it at Glastonbury.
It was a day never to be forgotten by our reclaimed outlaw, Wulfnoth of Compton, he was that day admitted to the novitiate, and received the tonsure; dire had been the conflict in his mind; again and again the old Adam waxed strong within him, and he longed to take advantage, like others, of the political disturbances, in the hope of avenging his own personal wrongs; then the sweet teachings of the Gospel softened his heart, and again and again his dear ones seemed in his dreams to visit him, and bid him prepare for that haven of peace into which they had entered.
"God hath done all things well," the sweet visitants of his dreams seemed to say; "let the past be the past, and let not its black shadow darken the glorious future—the parting was terrible, the meeting shall be the sweeter."
The ceremony was over, Wulfnoth of Compton had become the Novice Alphege of Dorchester, for, in accordance with custom, he had changed his name on taking the vows.
After the long ceremony was over, he sat long in the church undisturbed, a sensation of sweet peace came upon him, of rest at last found, the throbbing heart seemed quiet, the stormy passions stilled.
And now, too, he no longer needed the protection of carnal weapons, he was safe in the immunities of the church, none could drag him from the cloister—he belonged to God.
What a refuge the monastic life afforded then! Without it men would have been divided between beasts of burden and beasts of prey.