“What says Father Dolfin about them?”
“Well, he don’t say much of no sort,” answered Isel doubtfully, with an uneasy recollection of one or two things he had lately said. “But I say they’re as good folks as ever walked in shoe-leather, and you’ll not find their match in Oxford, let be Kepeharme Lane.”
“Well,” said Manning, “let them bide a few days: we shall see. But I shall brook no heresy, and so I give you fair warning. No heretic, known to me, shall ever darken the doors of a soldier of the cross!”
“I pray you, hold to that!” was Gerhardt’s answer.
The next morning dawned a fair autumn day. Manning seemed somewhat more inclined to be friendly than on the previous evening, and matters went on pleasantly enough until the hour of dinner. They had just risen from table when a rap came on the door. Flemild went to open it.
“Holy saints!” they heard her cry.
Then the door opened, and in walked two men in red and white livery, with four golden crosses patée embroidered on the left arm. With a glance round, they addressed themselves to Manning.
“Are you the owner of this house?”
Manning knew in a moment who his visitors were—official sumners of the Bishop of Lincoln.
“I am,” he said. “What would you have?”