He watched them until the last horseman had clattered through the
gateway, then turned away.

"My mitre on it, they are Gloucester's men," he muttered.

When they had quit the Abbey, De Lacy again summoned Raynor Royk and
questioned him regarding the Abbot of Kirkstall. The old soldier, like
the majority of his fellows who made fighting a business, had a
contemptuous indifference to the clerical class. A blessing or a curse
was alike of little consequence to men who feared neither God, man, nor
Devil, and who would as readily strip a sleek priest as a good, fat
merchant. Raynor's words were blunt and to the point. He knew nothing
of the Abbot except through the gossip of the camp and guard-room, and
that made him a cadet of a noble family of the South of England, who
for some unknown reason had, in early manhood, suddenly laid aside his
sword and shield and assumed Holy Orders. He had been the Abbot of
Kirkstall for many years, and it was understood had great power and
influence in the Church; though he, himself, rarely went beyond the
limits of his own domain. He was, however, regarded as an intriguing,
political priest, of Lancastrian inclination, but shrewd enough to trim
successfully to whatever faction might be in power.

Two of the remaining leagues had been covered, and they were within a
mile or so of the Wharfe when, rounding a sharp turn, they came upon a
scene that brought every man's sword from its sheath. The narrow road,
at this point, was through a dense forest of oaks and beeches that
crowded to the very edge of the track and formed an arch over it. The
trees grew close together, and the branches were so interlocked that
the sunlight penetrated with difficulty; and though the day was still