"Enter, fair lord," returned the porter, swinging back the gates. "Bid your men repair to the buttery yonder, while I conduct your worship to the holy father."
They found the Abbot pacing the gravel path between the cloister and the church, with his chancellor at his side. His cowl was thrown back and the white gown of his Order, which hung full to his feet, was fastened close to the throat. His face was pale, and the well-cut features and the small hands betokened his gentle birth. He was, possibly, about fifty years of age, but his step and bearing were as easy as De Lacy's own.
"Benedicite, my son," said he, as the Knight bent head to the uplifted hand, "you are welcome, and just in time to join us at the noonday meal."
"It was to ask refreshment for myself and my men that I halted, and your reverence has in kindness anticipated me," said De Lacy.
The Abbot turned to the porter: "Brother James," he said, "see that all are provided for and that the horses have a full allowance of grain.—And now, there sounds the horn for us. Sir———"
"Aymer de Lacy," filled in the Knight.
"A goodly name, my son; and one dear to Yorkshire hereabouts, although, now, near forgotten. Have you seen Pontefract?"
"I quit it but this morning."
"In sooth!" said the Abbot, with sudden interest. "And is His Grace of Gloucester still in presence there?"
"He left shortly before I did."