“Brother Martin is very careful for our reputation, sir. He has become the thorn in our mortal flesh. It is notorious that he eschews wine, fasts like a saint, and has no eyes or ears for anything that is carnal—save, sir, when he discovers such frailties in others.” The prior turned on Geraint with peevish impatience. “A pest on the fellow; he is no more than a vexatious fool. Let him be, brother.” Geraint leaned forward and spread his hands before the fire. “Brother Martin is no fool, sir; I am beginning to believe that the fellow is very sly. He watches and says but little, yet there is a something in those eyes of his. He lives like a fanatic, while we, sir, are but mortal men.” He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “As you know, sir, it was mooted that Abbot Hilary has his eyes on Paradise. Some one whispered shame of us, and Abbot Hilary is the devil.” Prior Globulus sat up straight in his chair, his face full of querulous anger and dismay. “Foul lies, brother.” “Foul lies, sir.” Geraint’s voice was ironical. His eyes met the older man’s, and Prior Globulus could not meet the look. “Well, well,” and he grinned peevishly. “What does your wisdom say, my brother?” Geraint edged his stool a little closer. “Brother Martin must be taught to be mortal,” he said; “he must become one of us.” “And how shall that befall?” “I will tell you, sir. Is not the fellow old Valliant’s son—old Valliant whose blood was like Spanish wine? Brother Martin is a young man, and the spring is here.” They talked together for a long while before the fire, their heads almost touching, their eyes watching the flames playing in the throat of the chimney. _Chapter II_ White mist filled the valley, for there was no wind moving, and the night had been very still. The moon had sunk into the Forest, but though the sun had not yet climbed over the edge of the day a faint yellow radiance showed in the east. As for the birds, they had begun their piping, and the whole valley was filled with a mysterious exultation. Into this world of white mist and of song walked Brother Martin, old Roger Valliant’s son—old Valliant, the soldier of fortune who had fought for pay under all manner of kings and captains, and had come back to take his peace in England with an iron box full of silver and gold. Old Valliant was dead, with the flavor of sundry rude romances still clinging to his memory, for even when his hair was gray he had caught the eyes of the women. Then in his later years a sudden devoutness had fallen upon him; there had been a toddling boy in his house and no mother to care for the child. Old Valliant had made great efforts to escape the devil; that was what his neighbors had said of him. At all events, he had left the child and his money to the monks of Paradise, and had made a most comely and tranquil end.