"Long bows!" exclaimed Stephen. "Who be they?"

"Brethren of St. Grimbald, sir. Such rule doth my Lord of Hyde
keep, mitred abbot though he be. They say the good bishop hath
called him to order, but what recks he of bishops? Good-day,
Brother Bulpett, here be two young kinsmen of Master Birkenholt to
visit him; and so benedicite, fair sirs. St. Austin's grace be with
you!"

Through a gate between two little red octagonal towers, Brother
Bulpett led the two visitors, and called to another of the monks,
"Benedicite, Father Segrim, here be two striplings wanting speech of
old Birkenholt."

"Looking after dead men's shoes, I trow," muttered father Segrim,
with a sour look at the lads, as he led them through the outer
court, where some fine horses were being groomed, and then across a
second court surrounded with a beautiful cloister, with flower beds
in front of it. Here, on a stone bench, in the sun, clad in a gown
furred with rabbit skin, sat a decrepit old man, both his hands
clasped over his staff. Into his deaf ears their guide shouted,
"These boys say they are your kindred, Master Birkenholt."

"Anan?" said the old man, trembling with palsy. The lads knew him
to be older than their father, but they were taken by surprise at
such feebleness, and the monk did not aid them, only saying roughly,
"There he is. Tell your errand."

"How fares it with you, uncle?" ventured Ambrose.