Now, on the Monday morning, the great concourse had streamed into the cathedral once more, an intense eagerness flashing from the eyes of the majority. The red Mass of the Holy Spirit had been chanted by the clerics, and the clouds of incense still clung about the columns and the vaulted roof of the church. King Louis sat expectant, and stupid, on the royal throne; the Count de Nevers and a brilliant group of nobles and knights standing beside and behind him. Opposite them another gaily apparelled group presented Henry, Archbishop of Sens, with five of his suffragan bishops; beside him sat Samson, Archbishop of Rheims, with three suffragans. Mitred abbots added to the splendour with their flash of jewels. Shaven monks, with the white wool of Cîteaux or the black tunic of St. Benedict, mingled with the throng of canons, clerics, scholastics, wandering masters, ragged, cosmopolitan students, and citizens of Sens and Paris in their gay holiday attire. It was, at first sight, just such an assembly as Abélard had dreamed of when he threw down the gauntlet to the Cistercian. But he must have looked far from happy as he stood in the midst of his small band of followers. As he passed into the cathedral, he had noticed Gilbert de la Porée in the crowd, the brilliant master who was to be Bernard’s next victim, and he whispered smilingly the line of Horace: ‘It is thy affair when thy neighbour’s house is on fire.’ With Abélard were the impetuous young master, Bérenger of Poitiers; the stern, ascetic, scornful young Italian, Arnold of Brescia, flashing into the eyes of the prelates the defiance that brought him to the stake fourteen years afterwards; and the young Roman noble, Hyacinth, who afterwards became cardinal.