"Why, there is the friar, lady mother," replied the bailiff, still reluctant, "the friar, whom these young lords who were here left behind in the stranger's lodging. He would give you counsel and assistance."
"Ay, ghostly counsel and spiritual assistance," replied the abbess; "but that is not what I want just now, good friend; so you will stop as I said, and remember that I shall expect a bolder face this time, if anything should happen, than when the rovers were here before. Men fancied you were afraid.--However, send the friar to me now, if he be well enough to come. I will see what counsel I can get from him."
"Well enough!" cried the bailiff. "He is well enough, I warrant--nothing the matter with him. Why, he was walking up and down in the great court before the chapel, with his hood thrown back, and his bald crown glistening in the moonlight, like a coot in a water meadow."
Part of this speech was spoken aloud, part of it muttered to himself as he was quitting the room in a very sullen mood. He did not dare to disobey the orders he had received, for the good abbess was not one to suffer her commands to be slighted; and yet women never, or very rarely, gain the same respect with inferiors that men obtain; and the bailiff ventured to grumble with her, though he would have bowed down and obeyed in silence, had his orders come from one of the sterner sex.
However that might be, hardly three minutes elapsed before the friar entered the parlour, and carefully closed the door behind him. His conference with the abbess was long, continuing nearly an hour, and the last words spoken were, "Remember rightly, reverend father, the moment the bell sounds, betake yourself to the chapel, and stand near the high altar. You can see your way; for there is always a lamp burning in the chapel of St. Clare. Lock the great door after you; and I will come to you from our own gallery."
The bishop bowed his head and departed; and the abbess, weary with the fatigue and excitement of the day, gladly sought repose. All the convent was quiet around, and the nuns long gone to rest. Even the lady's two nieces had some time before closed their eyes in the sweet and happy slumber of youth.
Sleep soon visited the pillow of the abbess also; for she never remembered having sat up so late, except once, when King Edward, the libidinous predecessor of the reigning monarch, had visited the abbey during one of his progresses.
Still and deep was her rest; she knew nothing of the passing hours; she heard not the clock strike, though the tower on which it stood was exactly opposite to her cell. She heard not even the baby of St. Clare, when, a little before two o'clock, it was rung sharply and repeatedly. A few minutes after, however, there was a knock at the room door; but, no answer being given, a lay sister entered with a lamp in her hand, and roused her superior somewhat suddenly.
"Pardon, lady mother, pardon," she said; "but I am forced to wake you, for here is Dick the under forester come up to tell you, from Boyd, the head woodman, that enemies are coming, and that you had better take counsel upon it immediately. There is no time to be lost, he says, for they are already past the Redbridge turn, not a mile and a half off, and, alack and a well-a-day, we are all unprepared!"
"Not so little prepared as you think, sister Grace," replied the abbess, rising at once, and hurrying on her gown. "You run to the porter, and tell him to toll the great bell with all his might, opening the gate to the men of the hamlet and the tenants, but keeping fast ward against the rovers. Then away with you, as soon as you have delivered that message, up to the belfry tower. The moon must be still up--"