Brother Martin achieved the work so perfectly that John stole some soft sweetmeats from the Abbot’s kitchen for his reward. The old man ate them; then repented; then confessed and insisted on penance. At which the Abbot, knowing there was but one way to reach the real sinner, set him a book called _De Virtutibus Herbarum_ to fair-copy. St. Illod’s had borrowed it from the gloomy Cistercians, who do not hold with pretty things, and the crabbed text kept Martin busy just when John wanted him for some rather specially spaced letterings. “See now,” said the Sub-Cantor reprovingly. “You should not do such things, John. Here’s Brother Martin on penance for your sake----” “No--for my Great Luke. But I’ve paid the Abbot’s cook. I’ve drawn him till his own scullions cannot keep straight-faced. _He_’ll not tell again.” “Unkindly done! And you’re out of favour with the Abbot too. He’s made no sign to you since you came back--never asked you to high table.” “I’ve been busy. Having eyes in his head, Stephen knew it. Clement, there’s no Librarian from Durham to Torre fit to clean up after you.” The Sub-Cantor stood on guard; he knew where John’s compliments generally ended. “But outside the Scriptorium----” “Where I never go.” The Sub-Cantor had been excused even digging in the garden, lest it should mar his wonderful book-binding hands. “In all things outside the Scriptorium you are the master-fool of Christendie. Take it from me, Clement. I’ve met many.” “I take everything from you,” Clement smiled benignly. “You use me worse than a singing-boy.” They could hear one of that suffering breed in the cloister below, squalling as the Cantor pulled his hair. “God love you! So I do! But have you ever thought how I lie and steal daily on my travels--yes, and for aught you know, murder--to fetch you colours and earths?” “True,” said just and conscience-stricken Clement. “I have often thought that were I in the world--which God forbid!--I might be a strong thief in some matters.” Even Brother Martin, bent above his loathed _De Virtutibus_, laughed. * * * * * But about mid-summer, Thomas the Infirmarian conveyed to John the Abbot’s invitation to supper in his house that night, with the request that he would bring with him anything that he had done for his Great Luke. “What’s toward?” said John, who had been wholly shut up in his work. “Only one of his ‘wisdom’ dinners. You’ve sat at a few since you were a man.” “True: and mostly good. How would Stephen have us----?” “Gown and hood over all. There will be a doctor from Salerno--one Roger, an Italian. Wise and famous with the knife on the body. He’s been in the Infirmary some ten days, helping me--even me!” “’Never heard the name. But our Stephen’s _physicus_ before _sacerdos_, always.” “And his Lady has a sickness of some time. Roger came hither in chief because of her.” “Did he? Now I think of it, I have not seen the Lady Anne for a while.”