call me in religion, but ill-accord I am in temper, by reason of the
air of this accursed land, and a most tempestuous blood of my own. For
why! I go to the Dominicans of Wanmouth, supplicating that I am new
landed, and have no convent to my name and establishment in the
Church. They take me in. Ha! they do that. Look now. 'A sop of bread
and wine,' I cry, 'for the love of God.' It is a Catholic food, very
comfortable for the stomach. Ha! they give me beer. Beer? Wet death! I
am by now as gouty as a cardinal, and my eye is inflamed. I think of
the Lucchese--those shafts of joy miscalled women--when I should be
thinking of my profession. I am ready as ever to admit two vows, but
Saint Paul himself cannot reconcile me to the third. Beer, my friend,
beer."

"You will do well enough, friar, if you are going the forest road. You
will find no Lucchesan ladies thereabouts."

"I am none so sure, gentleman. There were tales told at the Wanmouth
hostel. Do you know anything of a very holy place in these parts, the
Abbey of Saint Giles of the Thorn? Black monks, my brother; black as
your stallion."

"I think they are white monks," said Prosper, "Bernardines."

"I spoke of the colour of their deeds, young sir," answered Brother
Bonaccord.

"I know as little of them as of any monks in Christendom, friar,"
Prosper said. "But I have seen the Abbot and spoken with him. Richard
Dieudonne is his name, well friended by the Countess."