The monk groaned aloud. Lady Godiva groaned; but it was inwardly. There
was silence for a moment. Both were abashed by the lad's utter
shamelessness.

"And you will tell my father?" said he again. "He is at the old
miracle-worker's court at Westminster. He will tell the miracle-worker,
and I shall be outlawed."

"And if you be, wretched boy, whom have you to blame but yourself? Can you
expect that the king, sainted even as he is before his death, dare pass
over such an atrocity towards Holy Church?"

"Blame? I shall blame no one. Pass over? I hope he will not pass over it,
I only want an excuse like that for turning kempery-man--knight-errant, as
those Norman puppies call it,--like Regnar Lodbrog, or Frithiof, or Harold
Hardraade; and try what man can do for himself in the world with nothing
to help him in heaven and earth, with neither saint nor angel, friend or
counsellor, to see to him, save his wits and his good sword. So send off
the messenger, good mother mine: and I will promise you I will not have
him ham-strung on the way, as some of my housecarles would do for me if I
but held up my hand; and let the miracle-monger fill up the measure of his
folly, by making an enemy of one more bold fellow in the world."

And he swaggered out of the room.

And when he was gone, the Lady Godiva bowed her head into her lap and wept
long and bitterly. Neither her maidens nor the priest dare speak to her
for nigh an hour; but at the end of that time she lifted up her head, and
settled her face again, till it was like that of a marble saint over a
minster door; and called for ink and paper, and wrote her letter; and then