Affonso Henriques tore the sheepskin from its nails, and crumpled it in his hand; then he passed into the Cathedral, and thence came out presently into the cloisters. Overhead a bell was clanging by his orders, summoning the chapter.
To the Infante, waiting there in the sun-drenched close, came presently the canons, austere, aloof, majestic in their unhurried progress through the fretted cloisters, with flowing garments and hands tucked into their wide sleeves before them. In a semi-circle they arrayed themselves before him, and waited impassively to learn his will. Overhead the bell had ceased.
Affonso Henriques wasted no words.
“I have summoned you,” he announced, “to command that you proceed to the election of a bishop.”
A rustle stirred through the priestly throng. The canons looked askance at the prince and at one another. Then one of them spoke.
“Habemus episcopum,” he said gravely, and several instantly made chorus: “We have a bishop.”
The eyes of the young sovereign kindled. “You are wrong,” he told them. “You had a bishop, but he is here no longer. He has deserted his see, after publishing this shameful thing.” And he held aloft the crumpled interdict. “As I am a God-fearing, Christian knight, I will not live under this ban. Since the bishop who excommunicated me is gone, you will at once elect another in his place who shall absolve me.”
They stood before him, silent and impassive, in their priestly dignity, and in their assurance that the law was on their side.
“Well?” the boy growled at them.
“Habemus episcopum,” droned a voice again.