"The porter has them," said the monk, "they look strangely like a
bribe." And he nodded again with a beaming face, and his eyes grew
little and bright at his own humour.

He examined the bed before he left the room again, turned back the
sheets and pressed them down, and the straw rustled drily beneath;
glanced into the sweating earthenware jug, refolded the coarse towel on
its wooden peg, and then smiled again at the young man.

"Supper," he said briefly.

Christopher stayed a moment with a word of excuse to wash off the dust
of his ride from his hands and face, and when he came back into the
sitting-room found the candles lighted, the wooden shutters folded over
the windows, and a basin of soup with a roast pigeon steaming on the
table. The monk was standing, waiting for him by the door.

"I must be gone, Chris," he said, "but I shall be back before compline.
My Lord Prior will see you to-morrow. There is nothing more? Remember
you are at home now."

And on Christopher's assurances that he had all he could need, he was
gone, leisurely and cheerfully, and his footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Mr. Morris came up before Chris had finished supper, and as he silently
slipped away his plate and set another for the cheese, Chris remembered
with a nervous exultation that this would be probably the last time that
he would have a servant to wait on him. He was beginning to feel
strangely at home already; the bean soup was strong and savoury, the
beer cool; and he was pleasantly exercised by his ride. Mr. Morris, too,