If the Knight had led the walk townwards with set purpose, it did not appear; for presently he turned, and the five pushed back again through the jostling, clamorous crowd to the open Abbey green. At the great gate he paused, and motioned the two retainers to stand aside. Still he hesitated, tapping the sward impatiently with his mailed foot, his gaze astray among the clouds. At last he spoke, turning abruptly to the boy:—
"Canst write me a letter, to-night?"
"How wist ye he is a penman?" asked Peter, in amazed suspicion.
"What other wears ink upon his fingers? Nay—not you, good monk!—I asked the lad."
"The scriptorium is long since shut," Hugh began; "and——"
"Mayhap this golden key will fit the lock," the Knight interposed, drawing a coin from the purse at his side. "The letter is a thing of life or death."
"It may be contrived," broke in good Peter, taking the money without ceremony. "When a life hangs on a few paltry scratches of the pen, should we be Christians to withhold them?"
The Sacristan led the way now by a postern door into a basement room, and lighted two candles by the embers on the hearth.
"Run you," he said to Hugh, "and bring hither what is needful."
When the boy returned, and placed paper, inkhorn, and wax upon the table, and, pen in teeth, looked inquiry upward, the Knights wits seemed wandering once again. He paced to and fro about the chamber, halting a dozen times to utter words which would not come, and then, with a head-shake, taking up his march upon the stones. Finally, thus he ordered the letter written, though not without many pauses, and erasures in plenty:—