“Ale is all very well, Holt, but a stomachful of this red stuff is good after a night of prayer.” The little man sniggered, and nodded his head. “Warms up the blood again. Ssst—listen to that young dog yelping.” They could hear Brother Martin chanting in the choir. Geraint’s hand shot out and gripped the cellarer’s shoulder. “Assuredly you love him, friend Holt. Why, the young man is a saint; he brings us glory and reputation.” “Stuffed glory and geese!” Holt mouthed and jiggered like an angry ape. “It was a bad day for us when old Valliant renounced the devil and dedicated his bastard to God. Why, the young hound is getting too big for his kennel.” “Even preaches against the leather jack, my friend!” “Aye, more than that. Sniffing at older men’s heels, hunting them when they go a-hunting.” Geraint laughed. “We’ll find a cure for that. He shall be one of us before Abbot Hilary comes poking his holy nose into Paradise. Why, the young fool is green as grass, but there must be some of old Valliant’s blood in him.” “The blood of Simon Zelotes.” “We shall see, Holt; we shall see.” The prior’s parlor was a noble room carried upon arches, its three windows looking out on the prior’s garden and the fruit trees of the orchard. A roofed staircase, the roof carried by carved stone balustrades, led up to the vestibule. Geraint, still carrying his shoes, went up the stairway with the briskness of a man who did not vex his soul with ceremonious deliberations. Nor did he trouble to rap on the prior’s door, but thrust it open and walked in. An old man was sitting in an oak chair before the fire, his paunch making a very visible outline, his feet cocked up so that their soles caught the blaze. His lower lip hung querulously. His bold, high forehead glistened in the fire-light, and his rather protuberant blue eyes had a bemused, dull look. He turned, glanced at Brother Geraint, and grunted. “So you are not abed.” “No, I am here—as you see.” “Shut the door, brother. What a man it is for draughts and windy adventures!” Geraint closed the door, and throwing back his cowl, pulled a stool up to the fire. He was a lusty, lean, big-jawed creature, as unlike Prior Globulus as an eagle is unlike a fat farmyard cock. His eyes were restless and very shrewd. The backs of his hands were covered with black hair, and one guessed that his chest was like the chest of an ape. He had a trick of moistening his lower lip with his tongue, a big red lip that jutted out like the spout of a jug. “It is passing cold, sir, when a man has to walk without his shoes.” He thrust his gray-stockinged feet close to the fire. “You observe, sir, I am a careful man. Our young house-dog is awake.” He watched Prior Globulus with shrewd, sidelong attention; but the old man lay inert in his chair and blinked at the fire.