If an archer dared even to whisper his comrades silenced him by a look, while, when a man-at-arms dropped his short spear on the tiled floor, the culprit stooped, picked up the weapon guiltily, and crossed himself for very shame.
At length the singing ceased, the doors of the church were thrown wide open, and out came a long line of grey-gowned monks, walking two and two with bent heads and downcast eyes, while at the rear of the procession came the Sub-Prior and the Abbot. The former was a comfortable-looking, well-fed personage, with a benign countenance that neither fast nor penance could subdue, while the Abbot, a tall, gaunt man with wan features, redeemed by a pair of glittering eyes, looked a man whose natural sternness was increased by the strict rigidity of a celibate.
Immediately the soldiers drew themselves up into two lines, looking straight in front in military style, though as the Abbot passed they bent their heads to receive his benison, even the wounded, save Walter Bevis, standing unaided to share in the blessing.
It was a stirring and picturesque sight. The grey stones of the arched cloisters, the green patch of grass in the cloister court, and the still evening quiet were fitting surroundings for a procession of monks as their sandals clattered on the tiled floor; but the white surcoats bearing the red cross, the armour and weapons of the soldiers, and the pallid features of the wounded bespeaking strife and suffering, presented a strange contrast to the peacefulness of the Abbey.
Attended by two novices, the Abbot presently returned, and, learning the cause of the unusual visit, gave orders for the wounded men to be taken care of in the Abbey infirmary. He had already learned of the sack and burning of Hamble, but the deed of Redward Buckland and his comrades moved him greatly, and he desired to speak with the master-bowman.
Redward, his head still bound with a blood-stained bandage, was led before the Abbot. He had removed his steel cap, and the dying sunlight played on his thickly-cropped head and heightened the reddish hue of his beard. The Abbot gave an involuntary start of recognition, but, composing himself, he asked:
"How art thou, my son? I see thou art sore hurt."
"Nay, Father, it is but a scratch."
"A brave man to speak so lightly of so great a matter. And thou didst keep the press of enemies back till help arrived?"
"'Twas also a little matter, seeing we were behind stout walls."