"Thy memory shall be preserved," he said, "while fidelity and affection have honor upon earth. But that I trust I shall find the means of saving Rowena and thee, Athelstane, and thee also, my poor Wamba, thou shouldst not overbear me in this matter." The exchange of dress was now accomplished, when a sudden doubt struck Cedric. "I know no language but my own and a few words of their mincing Norman. How shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?" "The spell lies in two words," replied Wamba: "_Pax vobiscum_ will answer all queries. If you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, _Pax vobiscum_ carries you through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a broomstick to a witch or a wand to a conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a deep, grave tone,--_Pax vobiscum_!--it is irresistible. Watch and ward, knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm upon them all. I think, if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as is much to be doubted they may, I will try its weight." "If such prove the case," said his master, "my religious orders are soon taken. _Pax vobiscum_! I trust I shall remember the password. Noble Athelstane, farewell; and farewell, my poor boy, whose heart might make amends for a weaker head. I will save you, or return and die with you. Farewell." "Farewell, noble Cedric," said Athelstane; "remember it is the true part of a friar to accept refreshment, if you are offered any." Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition and presently found himself in the presence of Front-de-Boeuf. The Saxon, with some difficulty, compelled himself to make obeisance to the haughty baron, who returned his courtesy with a slight inclination of the head. "Thy penitents, father," said the latter, "have made a long [v]shrift. It is the better for them, since it is the last they shall ever make. Hast thou prepared them for death?" "I found them," said Cedric, in such French as he could command, "expecting the worst, from the moment they knew into whose power they had fallen." "How now, sir friar," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thy speech, me thinks, smacks of the rude Saxon tongue?" "I was bred in the convent of Saint Withold of Burton," answered Cedric. "Ay," said the baron; "it had been better for thee to have been a Norman, and better for my purpose, too; but need has no choice of messengers. That Saint Withold's of Burton is a howlet's nest worth the harrying. The day will soon come that the frock shall protect the Saxon as little as the mail-coat." "God's will be done!" returned Cedric, in a voice tremulous with passion, which Front-de-Boeuf imputed to fear. "I see," he said, "thou dreamest already that our men-at-arms are in thy refectory and thy ale-vaults. But do me one cast of thy holy office and thou shalt sleep as safe in thy cell as a snail within his shell of proof." "Speak your commands," replied Cedric, with suppressed emotion. "Follow me through this passage, then, that I may dismiss thee by the postern."