Their lives were framed in stone, and swords were about them. They were very ignorant, very prejudiced, superstitious and dirty--a big indictment! Nevertheless, it is certain that their influence upon the time was good and pure. It is the fashion to rail at monasteries of all periods. Many blockheads can never get over the mere _fact_ of the Dissolution! In a spirit of curiosity I examined half-a-dozen histories of the baser type--the sort of histories that are still given to fourth-form boys and quite grown-up girls. One and all, if they mentioned the monasteries in the reign of King Stephen at any length, either openly condemned them or damned them with faint praise. I take this opportunity of correcting messires, the historians, upon a point of FACT. It is odd that the hopelessly incompetent clergyman-schoolmaster should so invariably turn historian to-day. His monumental and appalling ignorance of the times and peoples he treats of--ignorance unillumined with a single ray of insight--is displayed on every line of his lucubrations. Nothing, apparently, would lead him to read and dig and sift for himself so that he might know just a little of what he writes about. Let me, at any rate, assure him, that while, as is natural, there were plenty of bad monks in the reign of Stephen, as a whole, the monasteries were very praiseworthy institutions, and had a beneficent influence upon the country. In short, my little priory at Icomb, is a perfectly fair and typical example of its class. While the monks were in the chapter-house, and afterwards attending a special service in the chapel, a long boat glided rapidly over the lake. It was a dark, thunderous night, and nothing betrayed the quiet passage of the craft, save the dusky glitter of the water as the oars rose and sank. Now and again some low orders in Norman-French regulated the pace or altered the direction of the boat. When the voyagers were about half-way across the mere, as near as they could judge, they heard the sudden tolling of the great bell of the Priory. The sullen, angry notes came across the water, out of the dark, in waves of booming sound. There was a muttered order, and the oars stopped in their swing. The boat rushed on for thirty yards or so, gradually losing its momentum, until at length it became stationary. "What does that betoken, Huber?" asked a voice. "I do not know," replied the man-at-arms. "Pardieu, I cannot tell." "Do you think they know that we are near?" "Not unless they have found out that Heraud has come with a certain purpose. Perchance Hyla saw him and recognised him." "Not he. Heraud shaved his face and cropped his hair, and the minter drew lines upon his face, and painted the poor divell's visage all over with some hell brew. I seed them at it. His own mother would never have thought him made of her blood." "Then, by Godis teeth! what does the bell mean?" "Oh, the old women are making prayers or saying Mass."