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Sir Nigel by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
page 58 of 476 (12%)
and intricate forms, with the parchments and seals which were
their outward expression, struck cold terror into hearts which
were steeled against mere physical danger.

Even young Nigel Loring's blithe and elastic spirit was chilled as
he lay that night in the penal cell of Waverley and pondered over
the absolute ruin which threatened his house from a source against
which all his courage was of no avail. As well take up sword and
shield to defend himself against the black death, as against this
blight of Holy Church. He was powerless in the grip of the Abbey.
Already they had shorn off a field here and a grove there, and now
in one sweep they would take in the rest, and where then was the
home of the Lorings, and where should Lady Ermyntrude lay her aged
head, or his old retainers, broken and spent, eke out the balance
of their days? He shivered as he thought of it.

It was very well for him to threaten to carry the matter before
the King, but it was years since royal Edward had heard the name
of Loring, and Nigel knew that the memory of princes was a short
one. Besides, the Church was the ruling power in the palace as
well as in the cottage, and it was only for very good cause that a
King could be expected to cross the purposes of so high a prelate
as the Abbot of Waverley, as long as they came within the scope of
the law. Where then was he to look for help? With the simple and
practical piety of the age, he prayed for the aid of his own
particular saints: of Saint Paul, whose adventures by land and
sea had always endeared him; of Saint George, who had gained much
honorable advancement from the Dragon; and of Saint Thomas, who
was a gentleman of coat-armor, who would understand and help a
person of gentle blood. Then, much comforted by his naive orisons
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