‘Hast thou considered, Master Mark, that maybe there is the Abbot to placate for taking liberties with his new Porch? Is not even a usurer’s life worth thirty crowns? Say thirty crowns for each stone and I will close with thee, nay, for three hundred crowns in all I am thine. Dost agree? Otherwise, home again to thy prayers, mine ancient penitent.’ ‘Oh,’ groaned Master Mark, ‘oh Mary, that such a young man should have such a hard heart, and should be so covetous. Three hundred didst thou say?’ ‘Yea, no less.’ ‘Mary, Mary, ’tis too much.’ ‘Good even, then, Master Mark.’ ‘Nay, nay, if thou must, then thou shalt have it, three hundred crowns. But thou wilt take away every single stone?’ ‘Yea, and replace every single one.’ ‘Swear then.’ ‘Nay, my word is my bond.’ ‘Promise then.’ ‘Ay, I promise.’ ‘Agreed then, and I take thy promise. But when wilt thou do it?’ ‘As soon as I have carved the stones wherewith to replace thee and thy brethren. But do thou bring the three hundred crowns here this time to-morrow evening.’ ‘Yea, I will bring two hundred and the other hundred after the work is finished.’ ‘If it please thee, good night.’ ‘Good night.’ Master Mark crept forth from the house like a rat from his hole. For three months afterwards Will was seldom to be seen at the Market, at the Green, or at the Alehouse, but was ever in his shop singing like a thrush and working like a Trojan. When folk asked what kept him so busy these days he would answer that he was carving a wondrous fine memorial for Master Matthew’s grave, whereat they laughed and called him a mad wag. When he had finished the work, having called his two faithful men, Abel and Geoffrey, to him, he swore them to secrecy. Then he told them all that he was about and desired them to help him, to which they agreed right willingly. That night after Vespers they went privily forth by a back way to the Church, bearing with them a ladder and mallets and chisels. Climbing the porch, they worked there the best part of the night, breaking away the mortar and cement which held the carved stones in their places, so that in the end they rested loosely in their sockets and might be carried easily away. The next night came in very misty and dark, so that for lack of light they could not go and finish their work, but the night following they stole forth again and this time brought down the Apostles from their places on the porch and replaced them by the stones which William had newly worked, in such sort that the upper part of the porch was all remade as he had designed it afresh.