One day, while the archbishop was sitting at the table of Alexander, the Supreme Pontiff, a person who was aware of this secret, placed before him a cup full of water. On the Supreme Pontiff taking it up, and tasting it, he found it to be the purest wine, and delicious to drink; on which he said: "I thought that this was water"; and on replacing the cup before the archbishop, the wine immediately returned to its former taste of water. Oh wondrous change by the right hand of the Most High! Every day, when the archbishop arose from dinner, unless more important business prevented him, he always devoted himself to reading the Scriptures until the hour of vespers at the time of sunset. His bed was covered with soft coverlets and cloths of silk, embroidered on the surface with gold wrought therein; and while other persons were asleep, he alone used to lie on the bare floor before his bed, repeating psalms and hymns, and never ceasing from prayers, until at last, overcome with fatigue, he would gradually recline his head upon a stone, put beneath it in place of a pillow: and thus would his eyes enjoy sleep, while his heart was ever watchful for the Lord. His inner garment was of coarse sackcloth, made of goat's hair, with which his whole body was covered, from the arms down to the knees. But his outer garments were remarkable for their splendour and extreme costliness, to the end that, thus deceiving human eyes, he might please the sight of God. There was no individual acquainted with this secret of his way of living, with the exception of two--one of whom was Robert, Canon of Merton, his chaplain, and the name of the other was Brun, who had charge of his sackcloth garments, and washed them when necessary; and they were bound by their words and oaths that, during his life, they would disclose these facts to no one. BECKET'S DEATH (1171). +Source.+--_Roger de Hoveden_, Vol. I., pp. 335, 336. Bohn's Libraries. G. Bell & Sons. Hardly had the father been residing one month in his see, when lo! on the fifth day of the feast of the Nativity of our Lord, there came to Canterbury four knights, or rather sworn satellites of Satan, whose names were as follows: William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville, Richard Briton, and Reginald Fitz-Urse, men of families remarkable for their respectability, but destined, by their daring to commit so enormous a crime, to blemish the glories of knighthood and the honours of their ancestors with perpetual ignominy. Accordingly, these persons made their way into the presence of the archbishop, and, as nothing salutary was the object of their message, in the malice they had conceived they omitted pronouncing any salutation, and addressed him in an insolent and haughty manner. Threats were exchanged on both sides and threat was answered with threat.