with their dark dewy slopes, over which he had ridden a year ago, and
all England beyond them again, with its human life and affairs and
interests; and over all hung the serene stars whence God looked down
well pleased with all that He had made.

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.