“Never, John!” the old man beamed happily.
“But I will! Now, follow! Here and here, as I prick, and in script of just this height to the hair’s-breadth, ye’ll scribe the thirty-first and thirty-second verses of Eighth Luke.”
“Yes, the Gadarene Swine! ‘And they besought him that he would not command them to go out into the abyss. And there was a herd of many swine’”——Brother Martin naturally knew all the Gospels by heart.
“Just so! Down to ‘and he suffered them.’ Take your time to it. My Magdalene has to come off my heart first.”
Brother Martin achieved the work so perfectly that John stole some soft sweetmeats from the Abbot’s kitchen for his reward. The old man ate them; then repented; then confessed and insisted on penance. At which the Abbot, knowing there was but one way to reach the real sinner, set him a book called De Virtutibus Herbarum to fair-copy. St. Illod’s had borrowed it from the gloomy Cistercians, who do not hold with pretty things, and the crabbed text kept Martin busy just when John wanted him for some rather specially spaced letterings.
“See now,” said the Sub-Cantor reprovingly. “You should not do such things, John. Here’s Brother Martin on penance for your sake——”
“No—for my Great Luke. But I’ve paid the Abbot’s cook. I’ve drawn him till his own scullions cannot keep straight-faced. He’ll not tell again.”
“Unkindly done! And you’re out of favour with the Abbot too. He’s made no sign to you since you came back—never asked you to high table.”
“I’ve been busy. Having eyes in his head, Stephen knew it. Clement, there’s no Librarian from Durham to Torre fit to clean up after you.”
The Sub-Cantor stood on guard; he knew where John’s compliments generally ended.