And, meanwhile, here he stood in his stall in his night shoes and black habit and cropped head, propped on his misericorde, with the great pages open before him, thumbed and greasy at their corners, from which he was repeating in a loud monotone formula after formula that had had time to grow familiar from repetition, but not yet sweet from associations--here he stood with heavy eyelids after his short sleep, his feet aching and hot, and his whole soul rebellious. * * * * * He was sent by his novice-master next day to the Prior, with his father’s letter in his hand, and stood humbly by the door while the Prior read it. Chris watched him under half-raised eye-lids; saw the clean-cut profile with its delicate mouth bent over the paper, and the hand with the enamelled ring turn the page. Prior Crowham was a cultivated, well-bred man, not over strong-willed, but courteous and sympathetic. He turned a little to Chris in his carved chair, as he laid the letter down. “Well,” he said, smiling, “it is for you to choose whether you will offer yourself. Of course, there is uneasiness abroad, as this letter says, but what then?” He smiled pleasantly at the young man, and Chris felt a little ashamed. There was silence for a moment. “It is for you to choose,” said the Prior again, “you have been happy with us, I think?” Chris pressed his lips together and looked down. “Of course Satan will not leave you alone,” went on the monk presently. “He will suggest many reasons against your profession. If he did not, I should be afraid that you had no vocation.” Again he waited for an answer, and again Chris was silent. His soul was so desolate that he could not trust himself to say all that he felt. “You must wait a little,” went on the Prior, “recommend yourself to our Lady and our Patron, and then leave yourself in their hands. You will know better when you have had a few days. Will you do this, and then come to me again?” “Yes, my Lord Prior,” said Chris, and he took up the letter, bowed, and went out. * * * * * Within the week relief and knowledge came to him. He had done what the monk had told him, and it had been followed by a curious sense of relief at the thought suggested to him that the responsibility of decision did not rest on him but on his heavenly helpers. And then as he served mass the answer came. It was in the chapel of the Blessed Virgin, a little building entered from the north transept, with its windows opening directly on to the road leading up into the town; there was no one there but the two. It was about seven o’clock on the feast of the Seven Martyrs, and the chapel was full of a diffused tender morning light, for the chapel was sheltered from the direct sunshine by the tall church on its south.