"If it is an English monastery they do," Osgod admitted, "but not
where there is a Norman prior, with his new-fangled notions, and
his vigils and fasts and flagellations. If I ever become a monk,
which I trust is not likely, I will take care to enter a Saxon
house, where a man may laugh without its being held to be a deadly
sin, and can sleep honestly without being wakened up half a dozen
times by the chapel bell."

"You would assuredly make but a bad monk, Osgod, and come what will
I do not think you will ever take to that vocation. But let us urge
on our horses to a better pace, or the kitchen will be closed, and
there will be but a poor chance of supper when we reach the priory."

"Well, Osgod," Wulf asked the next morning as they rode on their
way, "how did you fare last night?"

"Well enough as to the eating, there was a haunch of cold venison
that a king needn't have grumbled at, but truly my bones ache now
with the hardness of my couch. Couch! there was but the barest
handful of rushes on the cold stone floor, and I woke a score of
times feeling as if my bones were coming through the skin."

"You have been spoilt, Osgod, by a year of sleeping softly I marked
more than once how thickly the rushes were strewn in that corner
in which you always slept. How will it be when you have to stand
the hardships of a soldier's life?"

"I can sleep well on the ground with my cloak round me," Osgod said
steadily, "and if the place be hard you have but to take up a sod