"That is a different case," said the porter; "you said you wanted to see the abbot, not to speak to him. But come in."
"I cannot come in without you open the other gate," said the knight. "How can my horse pass, old man?"
"Light down, then!" said the porter. "I shall not let in horses here, unless it be my lord abbot's mule, be you who you will."
"Then you will take the consequences of not letting me in," replied the knight, "for I shall not light down from my horse till I am in the court."
"Then you will stay out," said the old man, very quietly shutting the door, much to Sir Osborne's indignation and astonishment. For a moment, he balanced whether he should ride on without farther care, or whether he should again make an attempt upon the obdurate porter. A moment, however, determined him to choose the latter course; and catching the bell-rope, he rang a very sufficient peal. Nobody appeared, and angry beyond all patience, the knight again clapped his hand to the rope, muttering, "If you won't hear, old man, others shall;" and pulling for at least five minutes, he made the whole place echo with the din.
He was still engaged in this very sonorous employment, when the door was again opened by the porter, and a monk appeared, dressed simply in the loose black gown of St. Benedict, with the cowl, scapulary, and other vestments of a brother of the order.
"I should think, sir knight," said he, "that you might find some better occupation than in disturbing myself and brethren here, walking in our garden, without offending you or any one."
"My good father," answered Sir Osborne, "it is I who have cause to be angry, rather than any one else. I came here for the purpose of rendering a slight service to my lord abbot, and am bearer of a letter from his grace of Buckingham; and your uncivil porter shuts your gate in my face, because I do not choose to dismount from my horse, and leave my attendants without, though I know not how long it may be convenient for your superior to detain me."
"You have done wrong," said the monk, turning to the porter; "first, in refusing to open the gate, next, in telling me what was false about it. Open the great gates, and admit the knight and his train. I shall remember this in the penance."
The old porter dared not murmur, but he dared very well be slow, and he contrived to be nearly half an hour in the simple operation of drawing the bolts and bars, and opening the gates, which the good monk bore with much greater patience than the knight, who had fondly calculated upon reaching the village of Sithenburn that night, and who saw the day waning fast in useless retardation.