“Then why are you Prior,” cried the doctor with a dramatic gesture, “if it is not to keep your subjects true and obedient? Do you mean to tell me—?”
“I entreat you, sir, for the love of Mary, not to tell his Grace—”
“Bah!” shouted Dr. Layton, “you may keep your breath till you tell his Grace that himself. There is enough of this.” Again he rose, and swept his eyes round the white-faced monks. “I am weary of this work. The fellow has not a word to say—”
“Master Layton, Master Layton,” cried the kneeling man once more, lifting his hands on one of which gleamed the prelatical ring.
“Silence, sir,” roared the doctor. “It is I who am speaking now. We have had enough of this work. It seems that there be no true men left, except in the world; these houses are rotten with crime. Is it not so, Master Torridon?—rotten with crime! But of all the knaves that I did ever meet, and they are many and strong ones, I do believe Master Prior, that you are the worst. Here is my sentence, and see that it be carried out. You, Master Prior, and you Master Sub-Prior, are to appear before Master Cromwell in his court on All-Hallows’ Eve, and tell your tales to him. You shall see if he be so soft as I; it may be that he will send you before the King’s Grace—that I know not—but at least he will know how to get the truth out of you, if I cannot—”
Once more the Prior broke in, in an agony of terror; but the doctor silenced him in a moment.
“Have I not given my sentence, sir? How dare you speak?”
A murmur again ran round the room, and he lifted his hand furiously.
“Silence,” he shouted, “not one word from a mother’s son of you. I have had enough of sedition already. Clear the room, officer, and let not one shaveling monk put his nose within again, until I send for him. I am weary of them all—weary and broken-hearted.”
The doctor dropped back into his seat, with a face of profound disgust, and passed his hand over his forehead.