share of the reckoning, and took it upon himself. "Said I not ye
were my guests?" quoth he. "We missed our morning mass, it will do
us no harm to hear Nones in the Minster."

"Sir, we thank you, but we should be on our way," said Ambrose,
incited by Stephen's impatient gestures.

"Tut, tut. Fair and softly, my son, or more haste may be worse
speed. Methought ye had somewhat to show me."

Stephen's youthful independence might chafe, but the habit of
submission to authorities made him obediently follow the monk out at
the back entrance of the inn, behind which lay the Minster yard, the
grand western front rising in front of them, and the buildings of
St. Swithun's Abbey extending far to their right. The hour was
nearly noon, and the space was deserted, except for an old woman
sitting at the great western doorway with a basket of rosaries made
of nuts and of snail shells, and a workman or two employed on the
bishop's new reredos.

"Now for thy tokens," said Father Shoveller. "See my young
foresters, ye be new to the world. Take an old man's counsel, and
never show, nor speak of such gear in an hostel. Mine host of the
White Hart is an old gossip of mine, and indifferent honest, but who
shall say who might be within earshot?"

Stephen had a mind to say that he did not see why the meddling monk
should wish to see them at all, and Ambrose looked a little
reluctant, but Father Shoveller said in his good-humoured way, "As
you please, young sirs. 'Tis but an old man's wish to see whether