Prior Globulus sat up straight in his chair, his face full of querulous anger and dismay.
“Foul lies, brother.”
“Foul lies, sir.”
Geraint’s voice was ironical. His eyes met the older man’s, and Prior Globulus could not meet the look.
“Well, well,” and he grinned peevishly. “What does your wisdom say, my brother?”
Geraint edged his stool a little closer.
“Brother Martin must be taught to be mortal,” he said; “he must become one of us.”
“And how shall that befall?”
“I will tell you, sir. Is not the fellow old Valliant’s son—old Valliant whose blood was like Spanish wine? Brother Martin is a young man, and the spring is here.”
They talked together for a long while before the fire, their heads almost touching, their eyes watching the flames playing in the throat of the chimney.