"Cedric is not her father," replied the Prior, "and is but of
remote relation: she is descended from higher blood than even he
pretends to, and is but distantly connected with him by birth.
Her guardian, however, he is, self-constituted as I believe; but
his ward is as dear to him as if she were his own child. Of her
beauty you shall soon be judge; and if the purity of her
complexion, and the majestic, yet soft expression of a mild blue
eye, do not chase from your memory the black-tressed girls of
Palestine, ay, or the houris of old Mahound's paradise, I am an
infidel, and no true son of the church."

"Should your boasted beauty," said the Templar, "be weighed in
the balance and found wanting, you know our wager?"

"My gold collar," answered the Prior, "against ten butts of Chian
wine;---they are mine as securely as if they were already in the
convent vaults, under the key of old Dennis the cellarer."

"And I am myself to be judge," said the Templar, "and am only to
be convicted on my own admission, that I have seen no maiden so
beautiful since Pentecost was a twelvemonth. Ran it not so?
---Prior, your collar is in danger; I will wear it over my gorget
in the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche."

"Win it fairly," said the Prior, "and wear it as ye will; I will
trust your giving true response, on your word as a knight and as
a churchman. Yet, brother, take my advice, and file your tongue
to a little more courtesy than your habits of predominating over
infidel captives and Eastern bondsmen have accustomed you.