Inside the porch rested the wayfarers; their beasts had been led to the stables, and on a sort of hand-bier before them, resting on tressels, lay the prostrate form of the victim of the prowess of Brian Fitz-Count.
"Where didst thou find him?" asked the Abbot.
"Near the spot on the downs where once holy Birinus preached the Evangel."
"Was with him, wounded by teeth as the master by sword. It was his moans and howls which attracted us."
"I see he is much hurt; I fear you have only brought him hither to die."
Just then a moan, louder than before, made them all start, then followed a deep, hollow, articulate voice.
He gazed wildly round, then sank with a deep groan back on the bier.
"Take him to the infirmary, and on the morrow we will see him."
A chance medley on the downs--a free fight between two who met by chance--was so common, that the Abbot thought far less of the matter than we may imagine.
"Insooth, he is ghastly," he said, "but in the more need of our aid. I trust we shall save both soul and body. Let the dog also have food and shelter."
But the dog would not leave his master's side, and they were forced to move both into the same cell, where the poor beast kept licking the hand which dropped pendent from the couch.
"My lord Abbot, there are weightier matters to consider than the welfare of one poor wounded wayfarer, who has fallen among thieves."
"Didst thou mark the bale-fire on Synodune last night?"
"We did, and marvelled what it could mean."
"They were lighted all over the country: Lowbury, Highclere, White Horse, Shirburne Beacon--all sent their boding flames heavenward."
"There were rumours that Matilda, the Empress Queen, had landed somewhere in the south."
"Then we shall have civil war, and every man's hand will be against his brother, which God forbid. Yet when Stephen seized our worthy Bishop in his chamber, eating his dinner of pulse and water----"
"Pheasant, washed down with malmsey, more likely," muttered a voice.
"And shut him in a dungeon--the anointed of the Lord--and half starved him----"
"Until he should deliver his castles of Newark and Sleaford----"
"Pretty sheepfolds for a shepherd to keep!"
"Such a king has little hold of his people; and it may be, God's just judgments are impending over us. And what shall we do if we cannot save the poor sheep committed to our charge; for be the one party or the other victorious, the poor will have to suffer. Therefore, my dear brethren, after Sext, we will hold a special chapter before we take our meridiana" (noontide nap, necessitated when there was so much night rising), "and consider what we had best do. Haste ye, my brother Ambrose; take thy party to the cellarer, and get some light refreshment. This is the day when he asks pardon of us all for his little negligencies, and in return for the Miserere we sing in his name, we get a better refection than usual. So do not spoil your appetites now. Haste, and God be with you. The sacristan has gone to toll the bell for Sext."