"Not before your face, Bernard. I know better than that. I know what is due to your sanctity of a few weeks. I waited like a decent Christian till your back was turned. You need have known nothing about it. And if, as we rode away, there was a woman behind my knave on his horse, you would have shut one eye. But these mongrels--these swine--resent it. Body of my life! Resent it!--an honor conferred on one of their girls if a Norman condescend to look with favor on her. Did not our gracious King Henry set us the example with a Welsh prince's wench? And shall not we follow suit?" "You are a fool, Rogier--at such a time, and so as to compromise me." "Who is to take you to task, brother?" "I mean not that, but to risk my safety. To leave me unprotected in the church, and to provoke a brawl without, that might have produced serious consequences to me. Odd's life! Where is that Cadell? Slinking away?" "My lord, I have greater cause to fear than yourself. They bear me bitterest hate." "I care not. Speak for me to these curs. Bid them unhand my brother. They have maimed him--maybe broken his arm. My brother, a Norman, held as a common felon by these despicable serfs!" "Bishop," said Pabo, stepping before Bernard. "What have you to say?" asked the prelate suddenly. The face of the Archpriest was stern and set, as though chiseled out of alabaster. "Are you aware what has been attempted while you were in God's house? What the outrage is has been offered?" "I know that my brother has been so light as to cast his eye on one of your Welsh wenches." "Lord bishop," said Pabo in hard tones, and the sound of his voice was metallic as the bell, "he has insulted this noble woman. He bound her hands behind her back and has endeavored to force her onto a horse in spite of her resistance, her struggles--look at her bruised and bleeding arms!--and to carry her away." "Well, well, soldiers are not clerks and milk-sops." "Do you know who she is?" "I know not. Some saucy lass who ogled him, and he took her winks as an invitation." "Sieur!" thundered Pabo, and the veins in his brow turned black. "She is the noblest, purest of women." "Among broken sherds, a cracked pitcher is precious." "Bishop, she is my wife!" "Your wife!" jeered Bernard, leaned back, placed his hands to his side, and laughed. "Priests have no wives; you mean your harlot."