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It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with
more than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in
person, who was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all
their train; and special prayers had been added, suitable to the
crisis, to the God of armies and Lord of battles.

So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great
gates of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and
the gates were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just
arrived, as he said, from over sea, and had but tarried to put his
horse in good keeping.

He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.

"Art thou with us or against us?" said the warder.

"I am a soldier of the Cross," was the reply, and a few more words
were whispered in the ear.

The warder started back.

"Verily thy father's heart will be glad," he exclaimed.

Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little
changed; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had
once given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation had
stamped his features with a softer expression.