Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for a
good comrade, clattered back through the gateway.

The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery
of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors
dicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and
strove to shut eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He
delivered the purse, only to hear mine host curse roundly because
it was lighter than the reckoning; and after being hustled and
jeered at for a milk-faced varlet by the men who stood drinking, he
sought with scarlet cheeks for a less frequented way.

The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and
suddenly traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a
city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses,
and, keeping guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind save
for two windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn,
stood about the house doors silent and moody; a white-faced woman
crossing the street with a bucket gave no greeting; the very
children rolling in the foul gutters neither laughed nor chattered
nor played. The city without seemed very far from this dismal
sordid place.

Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:-

"How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?"

He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an
ecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm.