The sombre-robed monks were in the choir, the organ rolling out its deep notes in accompaniment to the plain song of the _Venite exultemus_, which then, as now, preceded the psalms for the day. Then came the hymn: Lo night and clouds and darkness wrap The world in dark array; The morning dawns, the sun breaks in, Hence, hence, ye shades—away {16}! “Come, Hubert, dear son, worthy of thy sainted mother. We will praise Him, too, for He has lifted the darkness from my heart.” Chapter 9: The Other Side Of The Picture. The young scion of the house of Herstmonceux led Martin a few steps down the lane opposite Saint Mary’s Church, until they came to the vaulted doorway of a house of some pretensions. Its walls were thick, its windows deep set and narrow. Dull in external appearance, it did not seem to be so within, for sounds of riotous mirth proceeded from many a window left open for admittance of air. The great door was shut, but a little wicket was on the latch, and Ralph de Monceux opened it, saying: “Come and do me the honour of a short visit, and give me the latest news from dear old Sussex.” “What place is this?” replied Martin. “Beef Halt, so called because of the hecatombs of oxen we consume.” Martin smiled. “What is the real name?” “It should be ‘Ape Hall,’ for here we ape men of learning, whereas little is done but drinking, dicing, and fighting. But you will find our neighbours in the next street have monopolised that title, with yet stronger claims.” “But what do the outsiders call you?” “Saint Dymas’ Halt, since we never pay our debts. But the world calls it Le Oriole {17} Hostel. A better name just now is ‘Liberty Hall,’ for we all do just as we like. There is no king in Israel.” So speaking, he lifted the latch, and saluted a gigantic porter: “Holloa, Magog! hast thou digested the Woodstock deer yet?” “Not so loud, my young sir. We may be heard.” He paused, but put his hand knowingly to the neck just under the left ear. “Pshaw, he that is born to die in his bed can never be hanged. Where is Spitfire?” “Here,” said a sharp-speaking voice, coming from a precocious young monkey in a servitor’s dress. “Get me a flagon of canary, and we will wash down the remains of the pasty.” “But strangers are not admitted after curfew,” said the porter. “And I must be getting to my lodgings,” said Martin. “Tush, tush, didn’t you hear that this is _Liberty Hall_? “Shut your mouth, Magog—here is something to stop it. This young warrior just knocked down a _bos borealis_, who strove to break my head. Shall I not offer him bread and salt in return?” The porter offered no further opposition, for the speaker slipped a coin into his palm as he continued: “Come this way, this is my den. Not that way, that is _spelunca latronum_, a den of robbers.” “Holloa! here is Ralph de Monceux, and with a broken head, as usual. “Where didst thou get that, Master Ralph, roaring Ralph?” Such sounds came from the _spelunca latronum_.