The very day that Waleran rode through Battle, Dom Silvius walked with folded arms and bowed head into the Abbot’s parlour. He stood meekly within the door, his face full of a smooth humility, his eyes fixed upon the rushes. Abbot Reginald trusted greatly in this monk. The man was ever courteous and debonair, never turbulent or facetious, always inspired for the “glory” of his “house.” “The blessing of the day, Brother. What business lies between us?” Dom Silvius lifted his eyes for the first time to his superior’s face. “If I repeat myself, Father, my importunity is an earnest failing. It concerns the Red Saint for whom Olivia of Goldspur built a cell.” Reginald of Brecon leant back in his chair, and closed the book that he had been reading. “The woman whom they call Denise?” Silvius looked demure, as though his sanctity were especially sensitive where a woman was concerned. “Her fame has become very great these months,” he said quietly. “You covet it, Silvius.” The almoner bowed his head. “I grudge no soul its good works, Father. But in these days of burnings, and of spilling of blood——” “The woods have grown perilous, Silvius, with Lord Peter’s men abroad.” “That is the very truth, sir. There is no place safe outside the sanctuaries. I have heard it said that the Prior of Mickleham has offered protection to the woman.” Abbot Reginald smiled, the smile of a philosopher. “Speak your thoughts, brother.” Silvius spread his hands. “The woman is certainly a saint,” he said. “It is common report that she has worked many and strange cures. And, lord, with the foresight of faith I look towards the future. From simple beginnings great things have arisen. We do not draw pilgrims here—to our Abbey. How much glory, sir, has the altar of Canterbury won by the swords of those violent men.” Reginald of Brecon saw Dom Silvius’s vision. “A hundred years hence, brother, we shall be blessed through the relics of St. Denise!” Silvius had no mistrust of his inspiration. “The maid is certainly miraculous,” he said. “We could grant her a cell within our bounds.” He of the mitre put the tips of his fingers in opposition. “Our brethren of Mickleham or of Robertsbridge would forestall us, if they could?” “They love their ‘houses,’ Father, and for that I praise them.” “Worthy men! Where would you lodge her, Silvius?” “There is that stone cot near Mountjoye, sir, with the croft below it. We could set up a cross there that would be seen from the road. If the maid can but work miracles here, people will flock to her; then gifts can be laid upon our altar.” A sudden clangour of bells from the tower brought the almoner’s audience to an end. Reginald of Brecon rose, and laid aside his book. “What does the woman say?” he asked, touching the core of Silvius’s conception. “That, lord, must be discovered. If I have your grace in this——?” “Go, Brother, and prosper.”