“I obey orders,” answered Martin, “though I know little of Spaniards or of Spanish.”
“In every town the Benedictines have a monastery, and in every monastery interpreters, and you shall be accredited to them all who are of that great Brotherhood. Well, ‘tis settled. Go, make ready as best you can; I must write. Stay; the sooner this Harflete is under ground the better. Bid that sturdy fellow, Bolle, find the sexton of the church and help dig his grave, for we will bury him at dawn. Now go, go, I tell you I must write. Come back in an hour, and I will give you money for your faring, also my secret messages.”
Brother Martin bowed and went.
“A dangerous man,” muttered the Abbot, as the door closed on him; “too honest for our game, and too much an Englishman. That native spirit peeps beneath his cowl; a monk should have no country and no kin. Well, he will learn a trick or two in Spain, and I’ll make sure they keep him there a while. Now for my letters,” and he sat down at the rude table and began to write.
Half-an-hour later the door opened and Martin entered.
“What is it now?” asked the Abbot testily. “I said, ‘Come back in an hour.’”
“Aye, you said that, but I have good news for you that I thought you might like to hear.”
“Out with it, then, man. It’s scarce now-a-days. Have they found those jewels? No, how could they? the place still flares,” and he glanced through the window-place. “What’s the news?”
“Better than jewels. Christopher Harflete is not dead. While I was praying over him he turned his head and muttered. I think he is only stunned. You are skilled in medicine; come, look at him.”
A minute later and the Abbot knelt over the senseless form of Christopher where it lay on the filthy floor of the neat-house. By the light of the lanterns with deft fingers he felt his wounded head, from which the shattered casque had been removed, and afterwards his heart and pulse.