The Abbot turned toward the Prior. The latter nodded and spoke. “We brought with us two wandering friars--Franciscans. Westforest has known them long. They are not the idle and greedy rogues that bring us down with the people. They are right Mendicants, travelling from place to place to do good. Will it please you have them summoned?” A silver bell stood upon the table. Montjoy struck it. His page appeared, took commands and bowing vanished. Abbot Mark began to speak of the church at Silver Cross and how he would make it so rich and beautiful! Now Montjoy loved this church. Buried beneath it were his parents, and buried his first young wife, the one whom he loved as he did not love Dame Alice. It was she he had loved through and beyond Morgen Fay, loving something of her in that sinner from whom, in concern for his soul, he had parted. He listened to the Abbot. Certainly Silver Cross was the highest, the most beauteous, and must be kept so! He knew Silver Cross, church and cloister, in and out, when he was a boy and after. He had love and concern for it--love almost of a lover--jealous love. Prior Hugh and Saint Leofric must not go beyond bounds! The two friars entered, Andrew and Barnaby, honest-looking men, Andrew the more intelligent. They stood by the door with hands crossed and Montjoy observed them. Given permission to advance and speak they came discreetly, with modesty, into conclave. Without preamble, they began. The Abbot spoke. “My sons, the Lord Montjoy who hath ever been devout toward Saint Willebrod and his Abbey of Silver Cross--yea, who hath been, like his father before him, advocate and protector and enricher of the same, bringing from overseas emeralds, rubies and sapphires for that marvel the casket where lies that world’s marvel, the cross of Saint Willebrod--the Lord Montjoy, my sons, would have from your own lips that which you heard and saw in April, it now being late June.--Question them, Matthew, so that they may show it forth expeditiously.” The Prior squared himself to the task. “Where were you, my sons, two weeks before Easter?” “Across the river, reverend father. The granddame of Brother Barnaby here, living at Damson Lane, was breathing her last and greatly wishful to see him. She died--may her soul rest--and we buried her. Then we would go a little further, not having been upon yonder side for some while.” “You did not go brawling along, nor fled into every alehouse as if Satan were after you?” “Lord of Montjoy, we are not friars of that stripe. We are clean men and sober, praise God and Our Lady!” “Aye, aye, they speak truth, Montjoy.--Well, you walked in country over there, avoiding Friary and town--if one can call that clump of mud, pebble and thatch a town!” “Why did you do that?”