Part 9 (1/2)

When all the guests had departed and the door was shut safe behind them, the Father and his holy companions broke into loud mirth. ”The Malvoisie is drunk up,” said they; ”to-night we'll pay his lords.h.i.+p's cellars another visit.”

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER VII

Shows what curious Things you may see, if you don't go to Bed when you are sent

[Ill.u.s.tration: GEOFFREY]

To have steered a sudden course among dangerous rocks and rapids and come safe through, puts in the breast of the helmsman a calm content with himself, for which no man will blame him. What in this world is there so lifts one into complacency as the doing of a bold and cool-headed thing? Let the helmsman sleep sound when he has got to land! But if his content overtake him still on the water, so that he grows blind to the treacherous currents that eddy where all looks placid to the careless eye, let him beware!

Sir Francis came in front of the cage where sat young Geoffrey inside, on the floor. The knight had put his head down between his knees, and seemed doleful enough.

”Aha!” thought Sir Francis, giving the motionless figure a dark look, ”my hawk is moulting. We need scarcely put a hood on such a tersel.”

Next he looked at the shut door of the closet, and a shaft of alarm shot through him to see the keys hanging for anybody to make use of them that pleased. He thought of Elaine, and her leaving the table without his seeing her go. What if she had paid this room a visit?

”Perhaps that bird with head under wing in there,” he mused, looking once more at Geoffrey, ”is not the simple-witted nestling he looks. My son!” he called.

But the youth did not care to talk, and so showed no sign.

”My son, peace be with you!” repeated Father Anselm, coming to the bars and wearing a benevolent mien.

Geoffrey remained quite still.

”If repentance for thy presumption hath visited thee----” went on the Father.

”Hypocrite!” was the word that jumped to the youth's lips; but fortunately he stopped in time, and only moved his legs with some impatience.

”I perceive with pain, my son,” said Father Anselm, ”that repentance hath not yet visited thee. Well, 'twill come. And that's a blessing too,” he added, sighing very piously.

”He plays a part pretty well,” thought Geoffrey as he listened. ”So will I.” Then he raised his head.

”How long am I to stay in this place?” he inquired, taking a tone of sullen humour, such as he thought would fit a prisoner.

”Certainly until thy present unbridled state of sin is purged out of thee,” replied the Father.

”Under such a dose as thou art,” Geoffrey remarked, ”that will be soon.”

”This is vain talk, my son,” said the Abbot. ”Were I of the children of this world, my righteous indignation----”

”Pooh!” said Geoffrey.

”----would light on thee heavily. But we who have renounced the world and its rottenness” (here his voice fell into a manner of chanting) ”make a holiday of forgiving injuries, and find a pleasure even in pain.”

”Open this door then,” Geoffrey answered, ”and I'll provide thee with a whole week of joy.”

”Nay,” said Father Anselm, ”I had never gathered from thy face that thou wert such a knave.”