ones. A bell clanged; he laid aside the spade, and casting an eye at
the whirling weather-vanes announced that it would snow. There had
been no "sunset." They had travelled away imperceptibly from genial
afternoon into a world of ashen evening.

The enemies of the lay Prior, satirists literary and religious,
falsely made a priest of him, a priest who should have sacrificed a
goat to pagan Bacchus. And in truth the poet, for a time a soldier,
and all his life a zealous courtier, had always been capable, as a
poet should be, of long-sustained meditation, adapting himself easily
enough to the habits of the "religious," following attentively the
choir-services in their church, of which he was a generous
benefactor, and to which he presently proceeded for vespers. Gaston
and "the three" sat among the Brethren, tempting curious eyes, in the
stalls of the half-lighted choir, while in purple cope and jaunty
biretta the lay Prior "assisted," his confidentiaire, or priestly
substitute, officiating at the altar. The long, sad, Lenten office
over, an invitation to supper followed, for Ronsard still loved, in
his fitful retirements at one or another of his numerous benefices,
to give way to the chance recreation of flattering company, and these
gay lads' enthusiasm for his person was obvious. And as for himself,
the great poet, with his [63] bodily graces and airs of court, had
always possessed the gift of pleasing those who encountered him.

The snow was falling now in big, slow flakes, a great fire blazing
under the chimney with its cipher and enigmatic motto, as they sat
down to the leek-soup, the hard eggs, and the salad grown and
gathered by their host's own hands. The long stone passages through
which they passed from church, with the narrow brown doors of the
monks' dormitories one after another along the white-washed wall,