“Beyond-Wold Abbey?” “Aye, going there. Have come a long way, they say, stopping at friaries and castles. They’re Blackfriars. Ah, it is policy for men to visit now and then, getting away from home, changing stories and learning a bit! Prior’s a man like the rest of us! Tail man told me when I walked beside him a bit. They’ve got a saint’s bone with them, and a many poor souls have been healed in this town and that castle.” “What like is the prior?” “Tall bent man, thin as paper, very pale, with black eyes.” “That is not Westforest!” said Godfrey the smith, and looked over the grey wold to see if they were coming. Morgen answered, “No, not Prior Matthew. But it hath a sound of another I have seen going down High Street and by town cross.” “Saint Leofric’s Friary,” said the packman. “Other side England. Aye, bone of Saint Leofric. Prior Hugh.” Through grey air a flake fell, then another and another. “Thirty with him, do you say? Is there by chance a giant of a friar--you could not miss him if he were there--Friar Martin?” “Oh, aye, I think I saw him,” said the packman. “There was a huge brother bestriding the strongest horse! Well, I say, say I, black friars, white friars, grey friars and brown friars are at times ill as they’re sung, and at times good as they’re sung, and most times in between the two! But I say for the most part England’s had good of them. In the most and for the long run!” He was speaking to the brown-gold smith. That one agreed with him. “I think so, too, brother--though I’ve had my buffets--for the most part and in the long run!” The packman had his pony shod and was ready to depart. Snowflakes were few; he would reach the end of the wold, the sea and his small haven before night. He looked at the gold-brown smith, hesitated, then, “Come ye apart for a word!” They moved out under the hill. “You’ve got a fair woman with you. Do you remember a carter yesterday morn?” “Yes, I do.” “Well, he saith at the Good Man that he saw you in London, you and the woman there, though you did not see him. He saith a black friar raised that quarter of London against you and the woman, but especially the woman for she was a sorceress. But when they came to the house and beat in the door, you were gone, the two of you. There was one Jankin, but he knew naught. Well, Harry the carter told all that at the Good Man yestereve. I thought you might like to know. I might not have told, but she hath a great look of a sister of mine who’s dead. It is easy to cry sorcery, and hard to down the cry!” “Aye, it is. Take our thanks, friend!” The packman mounted his pony and went away through the grey day, the few flakes of snow. “Are you going, too?” asked Emmy. “I see you over wold and you do not come back. But I wish you to come back and I must weep!” “We are pilgrims--we cannot stay! Some one has set us a pilgrimage.”