"What have we here, brother Anselm? why doth the dog thus howl?"
"There hath been a fray, brother Laurentius. Here is a corpse; pray for his soul."
"Nay, he yet liveth," said a third, who had alighted. "I feel his heart beat; he is quite warm. But, oh! Saint Benedict! what a wound, what a ghastly gash across the shoulder."
"Raise him on the sumpter mule; we must bear him home and tend him. Remember the good Samaritan."
"But first let me bind up the wound as well as I can, and pour in oil and wine. I will take him before me. Sancta Maria! what a weight! No, good dog, we mean thy master no harm."
But the dog offered no opposition; he saw his master was in good hands. He only tried as well as his own wounds would let him to caper for joy.
"Poor dog, he hath been hurt too. How chanced it? What a mystery."
Happily the good brothers never travelled without medicinal stores, and a little ointment modifies pain.
So in a short time they were on their road again, carrying the wounded with them.
They were practical Christians, those monks.