“For Roger?”
“Ay. It should have been Hugh’s to my thinking, for the lad hath surpassed us all. But they vow it is thy design.”
“Ay, they know better than I do,” said Elyas bitterly. “See they are calling him up.”
Roger, indeed, was moving towards the group with an air which had gained assurance since he first came into the choir. The old master of the guild spoke in his quavering voice.
“Of these carvings which have been placed here to the honour of God and His holy Apostle, it is held that thine, Roger Brewer, is the most complete. Thou art therefore permitted to undertake the carving of another corbel, and to make choice of which thou wilt for thyself.”
Somebody started forward.
“Sir, it is no design of his; he is a false braggart, and stole it from Hugh Bassett.”
A great confusion arose, angry looks were turned on Wat, and the bishop moved forward and raised his hands.
“Methinks, masters, you forget in whose house we be. That is a grave accusation. Hast thou answer to make, Roger Brewer?”
“Ay, my lord,” said Roger, standing boldly forward. “I say it is a foul lie, and that he is ever seeking to do me a mischief, and I demand his proofs.”