Prior Hugh spoke of him at Saint Leofric’s but he spoke in scorn and drew plans for greater and greater guest houses. Sir Robert Somerville, having need to see Silver Cross as to a bit of debatable ground touching Abbey fields and manor wood, rode into Abbey close upon a misty, pearly day. He had his talk in the Abbot’s most comfortable parlour, sub-prior at hand to aid memory. The land certainly leaned to the Abbey side of the wall, or had been brought skilfully to lean by Abbey lawyers. Somerville saw that it were wisest to leave it debatable, awaiting some more fortunate aspect of manor stars. He slid from the subject, but with a sparkle in his eye. That glint always came when he ticketed a grudge and put it somewhere for safe keeping until it could be paid. And as he thought it would be unpleasing to the Abbot, he began presently to talk of Saint Leofric’s, to whom by now great fame had cleaved, by whose wall was building a town-- “Friar Paul--his visions--!” exclaimed the Abbot and broke off. There was no good, as Montjoy had proved, in casting pebble or boulder of discredit. The people were besotted, joined to their idol, this very Dagon that Hugh had set up! If Contrariousness were not already in possession then the hermit Gregory’s death in July had set her high on throne! The Abbot covered his eyes with his hand, then said, “There is a monk here that I hold to be holy as any living Dominican!” “Hath he vision?” “Yea,” said the Abbot, then in his heart. “He must have!” “It is not sufficient!” said Somerville. “Nothing now but revelations and healings following will even Silver Cross! Greater revelations, greater healings than Saint Leofric. You can’t go down the stair in such things. You must go up.” He spoke with fine malice. Abbot Mark glanced at him and said smoothly, “Very true, my son! but Heaven does not ask our will nor way in such matters! If it smiles, it smiles. Nor can it be limited to one handful. It may be that in this England we have touched a harvest week, as it were, and that many a sheaf will be thrown down.” He rose. “Come! I will show you Brother Richard.” He whom they sought was standing at the table in the room where he worked. Between his hands was a bowl of silver whereon he had wrought vine leaves and grapes. He put down his work and kneeled before the Abbot, then stood with crossed hands and lowered eyes. He was brown-blond, tall and still, with a face of dimmed power, dimmed beauty. When they had gone away, said Somerville, “Lord Abbot, Friar Paul is twice as thin and pale as yonder monk, and hath eyes that burn like coals! He would never see within him nor bring forth, vine leaves around a silver bowl! He sees but saints and martyrs filling his cell and speaking to him out of glories!” He nodded as he finished.