Old Holt squeaked at him imperiously. “Brother Martin, a word with you.” Martin passed the felling ax that he had been swinging to one of the men, and crossed over to Father Holt. “The prior has been asking for you. Get you back at once. Brother Jude has been taken sick, and is lying in the infirmary.” Martin glanced up at old Holt’s wrinkled, crab-apple of a face. “Who has gone to the Black Moor in Jude’s place?” “I did not ride here to gossip, brother. See to it that you make haste home.” Martin let old Holt’s testiness fly over his shoulders, and went and put on his black frock. The cellarer pushed his mule deeper into the wood where the men were barking one of the fallen trees, and Martin left him there and started alone for Paradise. The great oaks were just coming into leaf, the golden buds opening against the blue of the sky. The young bracken fronds were uncurling themselves from the brown tangle of last year’s growth, and here and there masses of wild hyacinth made pools of blue. The gorse had begun to burn with a lessened splendor, but the broom had taken fire, and waved its yellow torches everywhere. Martin found Prior Globulus in his parlor, sitting by a window with a book in his lap. The prior had been dozing; his eyes looked misty and dull. “You have sent for me, sir.” “Come you here, Brother Martin. Assuredly—I have been asleep. Yes—I remember. Brother Jude has been taken sick. He rode in two hours ago, with a sharp fever. I have chosen you to take his place, my son.” His dull eyes watched Martin’s face. “The chapel on the Black Moor must have a priest. There are people, my son, who would not pardon us if we left that altar unserved even for a day. Get you a mule and ride there. To-morrow I will send two pack mules with food and wine and new altar cloths and vestments. No cell of ours shall be served in niggardly fashion. And remember, my son, that it is part of our trust to serve all wayfarers with bread and wine, should they ask for bread and wine. Holy St. Florence so ordered it before she died. And there is the little hostelry where wayfarers may lodge themselves for the night. All these matters will be in your keeping.” He groped in a gypsire that lay on the window seat. “Here is the key of the chapel, Brother Martin. Now speed you, and bear my blessing.” Martin kissed the ring on the old man’s hand, and went forth to take up his trust.