a homing pigeon; through that archway, lad, lies thy journey's
end." Then, apprehending for the first time Hilarius' white face
and piteous eyes, Martin strode across, swept him under the archway
into a quiet courtyard where a fountain rippled, and, having handed
him over to Sir John's steward, left him with a friendly slap on
the back and the promise of speedy meeting.

Hilarius delivered the Prior's letter, and followed the steward
into a rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men were busy
with preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, lonely and
dejected, his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his whole being
crying out for the busied peace and silent orderliness of his
cloister home. The servants gibed at him, but he was too weary to
heed; indeed he hardly noticed when the household swept in to
supper, until a page-boy tweaked him slyly by the ear and bade him
come to table. He ate and drank thankfully, too dazed to take note
of the meal; and the pages and squires among whom he sat left him
alone, abashed at his gentleness. At last, something restored by
the much-needed food, Hilarius looked round the hall.

It reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was far
loftier and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in through
high lancet windows served but to emphasize the upper gloom, which
the morrow's sun would dissipate into cunningly carved woodwork--a
man's thought in every quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque
beast and guarding saint. A raised table stood at the upper end of
the hall, and here gaily dressed pages waited on the master of the
house and his honoured guests. Hilarius rightly guessed the tall,
careworn man of distinguished presence to be no other than Sir John
himself, and he liked him well; but his eyes wandered carelessly