t, however, in the nature of things that a lad of twenty,

with young life glowing in his veins and all the wide world

before him, should spend his first hours of freedom in mourning

for what he had left. long ere alleyne was out of sound of the

beaulieu bells he was striding sturdily along, swinging his staff

and whistling as merrily as the birds in the thicket. it was an

evening to raise a man's heart. the sun shining slantwise

through the trees threw delicate traceries across the road, with

bars of golden light between. away in the distance before and

behind, the green boughs, now turning in places to a coppery

redness, shot their broad arches across the track. the still

summer air was heavy with the resinous smell of the great forest.

here and there a tawny brook prattled out from among the

underwood and lost itself again in the ferns and brambles upon

the further side. save the dull piping of insects and the sough

of the leaves, there was silence everywhere--the sweet restful

silence of nature.

and yet there was no want of life--the whole wide wood was full

of it. now it was a lithe, furtive stoat which shot across the

path upon some fell errand of its own; then it was a wild cat

which squatted upon the outlying branch of an oak and peeped at

the traveller with a yellow and dubious eye. once it was a wild

sow which scuttled out of the bracken, with two young sounders at

her heels, and once a lordly red staggard walked daintily out

from among the tree trunks, and looked around him with the

fearless gaze of one who lived under the king's own high

protection. alleyne gave his staff a merry flourish, however,

and the red deer bethought him that the king was far off, so

streaked away from whence he came.

the youth had now journeyed considerably beyond the furthest

domains of the abbey. he was the more surprised therefore when,

on coming round a turn in the path, he perceived a man clad in

the familiar garb of the order, and seated in a clump of heather

by the roadside. alleyne had known every brother well, but this

was a face which was new to him--a face which was very red and

puffed, working this way and that, as though the man were sore

perplexed in his mind. once he shook both hands furiously in the

air, and twice he sprang from his seat and hurried down the road.

when he rose, however, alleyne observed that his robe was much

too long and loose for him in every direction, trailing upon the

ground and bagging about his ankles, so that even with trussed-up

skirts he could make little progress. he ran once, but the long

gown clogged him so that he slowed down into a shambling walk,

and finally plumped into the heather once more.

"young friend," said he, when alleyne was abreast of him, "i fear

from thy garb that thou canst know little of the abbey of

beaulieu?"

"then you are in error, friend," the clerk answered, "for i have

spent all my days within its walls."

"hast so indeed?" cried he. "then perhaps canst tell me the name

of a great loathly lump of a brother wi' freckled face an' a hand

like a spade. his eyes were black an' his hair was red an' his

voice like the parish bull. i trow that there cannot be two

alike in the same cloisters."

"that surely can be no other than brother john," said alleyne.

"i trust he has done you no wrong, that you should be so hot

against him."

"wrong, quotha!" cried the other, jumping out of the heather.

"wrong! why he hath stolen every plack of clothing off my back,

if that be a wrong, and hath left me here in this sorry frock of

white falding, so that i have shame to go back to my wife, lest

she think that i have donned her old kirtle. harrow and alas

that ever i should have met him!"

"but how came this?" asked the young clerk, who could scarce keep

from laughter at the sight of the hot little man so swathed in

the great white cloak.

"it came in this way," he said, sitting down once more: "i was

passing this way, hoping to reach lymington ere nightfall when i

came on this red-headed knave seated even where we are sitting

now. i uncovered and louted as i passed thinking that he might

be a holy man at his orisons, but he called to me and asked me if

i had heard speak of the new indulgence in favor of the

cistercians. 'not i,' i answered. 'then the worse for thy

soul!' said he; and with that he broke into a long tale how that

on account of the virtues of the abbot berghersh it had been

decreed by the pope that whoever should wear the habit of a monk

of beaulieu for as long as he might say the seven psalms of david

should be assured of the kingdom of heaven. when i heard this i

prayed him on my knees that he would give me the use of his gown,

which after many contentions he at last agreed to do, on my

paying him three marks towards the regilding of the image of

laurence t