The young novice had suspended his labours to listen.
"Benedict, you are neglecting your gradual," said the Abbot. "The music must be completed for the coming festival of All Saints; it is the chant of Fescamp—somewhat softer to our ears than the harsher Gregorian strains. Yet many love the latter well; as did the monks of Glastonbury."
Here he paused, and waited until he saw they were all open-mouthed for his story; for such was monastic discipline, that no one ventured to say: "Tell us the story."
"Well," he said, "the English monks of Glastonbury had endured much unmerited severity at the hands of Thurstan, their Norman Abbot, but they bore all, until he bade them leave off their crude Gregorian strains, and chant the lays of William of Fescamp. Then they stoutly refused; and he sent for a troop of men-at-arms. The monks rushed to the great church and barred themselves in, but the men-at-arms forced a way into the church, and slew the greater part of the monks with their arrows. So thick was the storm of piercing shafts, that the image of the Christ on the rood was stuck full of these sacrilegious missiles."
"And what became of Thurstan?" asked one of the elder brethren.
"The king deposed him, as unfit to rule; suggesting that a shepherd should not flay his sheep."
"And that was all?" said an indignant young novice, whose features showed his English blood.
"Hush! my son Wilfred. Novices must hear—not speak. Speech is silver; silence is golden."
At that moment the Prior made his appearance in the doorway.
"My father Abbot, the brethren have returned from our poor house at Hermitage, and they bring a wounded man, whom they found on the downs."