“A friar?” 'T would seem as the word stank in the nostrils of the good Father.
“Nay,—a clerk,—belike a priest secular.”
“A Wyclifite preacher?” the prior questioned sharply. “We may not harbour these Worcester Lollards.”
“Hath a breviary, with prayers for the dead well thumbed. Likewise a parchment. 'T is here.”
The prior unrolled the parchment beneath the window. The sky was a-flush with the coming up of the sun.
“Nay,” quoth he presently, “'t is naught harmful. A poem.”
The brother was peering over his prior's shoulder:—
“Here 's Holy Writ,” said he.
“In Latin, brother, as is meet.”
“'T is very bad Latin,” the brother made answer.