Sir Nigel | Page 9

on the matter of the escuage, and came screaming back with
this young hothead raging at their heels. He is small and slight, yet he
has the strength of many men in the hour of his wrath. The bailiff
swears that he will go no more, save with half a score of archers to
uphold him."
The Abbot was red with anger at this new offense. "I will teach him
that the servants of Holy Church, even though we of the rule of Saint
Bernard be the lowliest and humblest of her children, can still defend
their own against the froward and the violent! Go, cite this man before
the Abbey court. Let him appear in the chapter-house after tierce
to-morrow."
But the wary sacrist shook his head: "Nay, holy father, the times are not
yet ripe. Give me three days, I pray you, that my case against him may
be complete. Bear in mind that the father and the grandfather of this
unruly squire were both famous men of their day and the foremost
knights in the King's own service, living in high honor and dying in
their knightly duty. The Lady Ermyntrude Loring was first lady to the
King's mother. Roger FitzAlan of Farnham and Sir Hugh Walcott of
Guildford Castle were each old comrades-in-arms of Nigel's father, and
sib to him on the distaff side. Already there has been talk that we have
dealt harshly with them. Therefore, my rede is that we be wise and
wary and wait until his cup be indeed full."
The Abbot had opened his mouth to reply, when the consultation was
interrupted by a most unwonted buzz of, excitement from among the
monks in the cloister below. Questions and answers in excited voices
sounded from one side of the ambulatory to the other. Sacrist and
Abbot were gazing at each other in amazement at such a breach of the
discipline and decorum of their well-trained flock, when there came a
swift step upon the stair, and a white-faced brother flung open the door
and rushed into the room.

"Father Abbot!" he cried. "Alas, alas! Brother John is dead, and the
holy subprior is dead, and the Devil is loose in the five- virgate field!"

III. THE YELLOW HORSE OF CROOKSBURY
In those simple times there was a great wonder and mystery in life.
Man walked in fear and solemnity, with Heaven very close above his
head, and Hell below his very feet. God's visible hand was everywhere,
in the rainbow and the comet, in the thunder and the wind. The Devil
too raged openly upon the earth; he skulked behind the hedge-rows in
the gloaming; he laughed loudly in the night-time; he clawed the dying
sinner, pounced on the unbaptized babe, and twisted the limbs of the
epileptic. A foul fiend slunk ever by a man's side and whispered
villainies in his ear, while above him there hovered an angel of grace
who pointed to the steep and narrow track. How could one doubt these
things, when Pope and priest and scholar and King were all united in
believing them, with no single voice of question in the whole wide
world?
Every book read, every picture seen, every tale heard from nurse or
mother, all taught the same lesson. And as a man traveled through the
world his faith would grow the firmer, for go where he would there
were the endless shrines of the saints, each with its holy relic in the
center, and around it the tradition of incessant miracles, with stacks of
deserted crutches and silver votive hearts to prove them. At every turn
he was made to feel how thin was the veil, and how easily rent, which
screened him from the awful denizens of the unseen world.
Hence the wild announcement of the frightened monk seemed terrible
rather than incredible to those whom he addressed. The Abbot's ruddy
face paled for a moment, it is true, but he plucked the crucifix from his
desk and rose valiantly to his feet.
"Lead me to him!" said he. "Show me the foul fiend who dares to lay
his grip upon brethren of the holy house of Saint Bernard! Run down to
my chaplain, brother! Bid him bring the exorcist with him, and also the
blessed box of relics, and the bones of Saint James from under the altar!
With these and a contrite and humble heart we may show front to all
the powers of darkness."
But the sacrist was of a more critical turn of mind. He clutched the
monk's arm with a grip which left its five purple spots for many a day

to come.
"Is this the way to enter the Abbot's own chamber, without knock or
reverence, or so much as a `Pax vobiscum'?" said