“It is indeed gloomy to think upon, son,” said the abbot, “if that were all of death; but the religion of our Saviour hath robbed the grave of its terrors. We know that the soul is beyond, and what matters the body?”
“A truce to such talk,” cried Ælfric. “Give us the Te Deum, priest. I like not to think on such things.”
“It shall be as thou wishest, though much I mislike to leave the subject as I perceive that thou art ungodly.”
Then all joined in the sublime, unmetrical Te Deum.
“Did thy priest but sing that,” burst from the juggler, “I would wonder not at the people listening to him.”
The abbot smiled, well pleased.
“Thy heart is not altogether hardened, son, if it be touched by the hymn,” he said. “Mayhap thou wilt be willing yet to talk with me.”
After more singing, the conversation turned upon the Danes, and the probability of a fresh outbreak discussed. The hour was late when the abbot, noting that Egwina’s eyes were heavy and that it was with difficulty she kept awake, arose.
“To bed! to bed! See ye not that the maiden is aweary?”
So saying he conducted them to the guest house, a building in the courtyard but without the convent proper, and soon quiet reigned over the monastery.