They supped at a round table of small size, in the very centre of the huge apartment. It formed a point of light and brightness from which all else merged into shadow, and yet deeper shadow, until the eye reached the dark panelling of the walls.
The light seemed to centre in the Knight—white and silver; the colour, in the figure of the Bishop—crimson and gold.
In and out of the shadows, swift and silent, on sandalled feet, moved the lay-brothers serving the feast; watchful of each detail; quickly supplying every need.
At length they loaded the table with fruit; put upon it fresh flagons of wine, and finally withdrew; each black-robed figure merging into the black shadows, and vanishing in silence.
The Bishop's Chaplain appeared in a distant doorway.
"Benedicite," said Symon of Worcester, looking up.
"Deus," replied the Chaplain, making a profound obeisance.
Then he stood erect—a grim, austere figure, hard features, hollow eyes, half-shrouded within his cowl.
He looked with sinister disapproval at the distant table, laden with fruit and flagons; at the Bishop and the Knight, now sitting nigh to one another; the Bishop in his chair of state facing the door, the Knight, on a high-backed seat at the Bishop's right hand, half-way round the table.
"Holly and Mistletoe," muttered the Chaplain, as he closed the great door.