"He is a Kill-joy," replied the questor, with a significant look; "but he is none of our own people, though one of the order, from the abbey at Liege. He departs soon, God be praised; for he has done nothing but censure us since he came hither. His abbot sent him away upon a visitation--to get rid of him, I believe; for he was unruly there, too, and declared that widgeons could not be eaten on even an ordinary fast-day without sin, though we all know the contrary."
"He is not orthodox in that, at least," answered Richard of Woodville, with a smile. "Doubtless he thinks it highly improper for a lady to have shelter here."
"For that very reason," said the questor, in the same low tone in which their conversation had been hitherto carried on, "the prior will have to lodge you in the visitor's lodging, which you saw just by the gate; for he fears the reports of brother Paul. Otherwise he would have put you in the sub-prior's rooms, he being absent. But see, now he has done himself, how brother Paul watches every mouthful that goes down the throats of others!" The questor sank his voice to a whisper, adding, in a solemn tone, "He drinks no wine--nothing but water wets his lips! Is not that a sin?--a disparaging of the gifts of God?"
"It is, certainly, not using them discreetly," answered Richard of Woodville; "and, methinks, in these low lands, a cup of generous wine, such as this is, must be even more necessary to a reverend monk, who spends half his time in prayer, than to a busy creature of the world, who has plenty of exercise to keep his blood flowing."
"To be sure it is!" replied the questor, who approved the doctrine highly; and thereupon he filled Woodville's can again, with a "Benedicite, noble sir."
When the meal was over, the young Englishman remarked, that this grim brother Paul, of whom they had been speaking, took advantage of the little interval which usually succeeds the pleasant occupation of eating, to draw the prior aside, and whisper to him for several minutes. The face of the latter betrayed impatience and displeasure, and he turned from him, with a somewhat mocking air, saying aloud, "You are mistaken, my brother, and not charitable, as you will soon see. Hark! there is the bell for complines. Do you attend the service, sir?"
The last words were addressed to Richard of Woodville, who bowed his head, and answered, "Gladly I will."
"Oh, yes!" cried Ella, with a joyful look; "I shall be so pleased, if I may find a place in the chapel. I have not had the opportunity of hearing any service since I left London."
"Assuredly, my daughter!" said the prior, with a gracious look; "the chapel is open to all. We have our own place; but every day we have the villagers and townsfolk to hear our chanting, which we are somewhat vain of. You shall be shown how to reach it with your friends."
The monks took their way to the chapel by a private door from the refectory; and Richard of Woodville, with Ella, was led by a lay brother of the monastery through the court. Two or three women and one old man were in the chapel, and the short evening service began and ended, the sweet voice of Ella Brune mingling sounds with the choir, which, well I wot, the place had not often heard before. At the close, Richard of Woodville moved towards the door; but Ella besought him to stay one moment, and, advancing to the shrine of Our Lady, knelt down and prayed devoutly, with her beads in her hand. Perhaps she might ask for a prosperous journey, and for deliverance from danger; or she might entreat support and guidance in an undertaking that occupied the dearest thoughts of an enthusiastic heart; nor will there be many found to blame her, even if the higher aspirations, the holier and purer impulses that separate the spirit from the earth and lead the soul to Heaven, were mingled with the mortal affections that cling around us to the end, so long as we are bondsmen of the clay.