"Send for an inkhorn, Anselm. Write me now a letter to his Holiness the Pope in good round terms, and another to the coroner, and another to the sheriff and seize me the never-enough-to-be-anathematised villain who hath done this deed! Hang him as high as Haman, Anselm!—up with him!—down with his dwelling-place, root and branch, hearth-stone and roof-tree,—down with it all, and sow the site with salt and sawdust!"
St. Austin, it will be perceived, was a radical reformer.
"Marry will I," quoth the Abbot, warming with the Saint's eloquence; "ay, marry will I, and that instanter. But there is one thing you have forgotten, most Beatified—the name of the culprit."
"Ralph de Shurland."
"The Lord of Sheppey! Bless me!" said the Abbot, crossing himself, "won't that be rather inconvenient? Sir Ralph is a bold baron and a powerful; blows will come and go, and crowns will be cracked, and——"
"What is that to you, since yours will not be of the number?"
"Very true, Beatissime! I will don me with speed, and do your bidding."
"Do so, Anselm!—fail not to hang the baron, burn his castle, confiscate his estate, and buy me two large wax-candles for my own particular shrine out of your share of the property."
With this solemn injunction the vision began to fade.
"One thing more!" cried the Abbot, grasping his rosary.