oose to his knee; while a
kind of cloak, fastened to the right shoulder by a large round button or
brooch, flowed behind and in front, but left both arms free. His cap
differed in shape from the Norman's, being round and full at the sides,
somewhat in shape like a turban. His bare, brawny throat was curiously
punctured with sundry devices, and a verse from the Psalms.

His countenance, though without the high and haughty brow, and the acute,
observant eye of his comrade, had a pride and intelligence of its own--a
pride somewhat sullen, and an intelligence somewhat slow.

"My good friend, Sexwolf," quoth the Norman in very tolerable Saxon, "I
pray you not so to misesteem us. After all, we Normans are of your own
race: our fathers spoke the same language as yours."

"That may be," said the Saxon, bluntly, "and so did the Danes, with
little difference, when they burned our houses and cut our throats."

"Old tales, those," replied the knight, "and I thank thee for the
comparison; for the Danes, thou seest, are now settled amongst ye,
peaceful subjects and quiet men, and in a few generations it will be hard
to guess who comes from Saxon, who from Dane."

"We waste time, talking such matters," returned the Saxon, feeling
himself instinctively no match in argument for his lettered companion;
and seeing, with his native strong sense; that some ulterior object,
though he guessed not what, lay hid in the conciliatory language of his
companion; "nor do I believe, Master Mallet or Gravel--forgive me if I
miss of the right forms to address you--that Norman will ever love Saxon,
or Saxon Norman; so let us cut our words short. There stands the
convent, at which you would like to rest and refresh yourself."

The Saxon pointed to a low, clumsy building of timber, forlorn and
decayed, close by a rank marsh, over which swarmed gnats, and all foul
animalcules.

Mallet de Graville, for it was he, shrugged his shoulders, and said, with
an air of pity and contempt:

"I would, friend Sexwolf, that thou couldst but see the houses we build
to God and his saints in our Normandy; fabrics of stately stone, on the
fairest sites. Our Countess Matilda hath a notable taste for the
masonry; and our workmen are the brethren of Lombardy, who know all the
mysteries thereof."

"I pray thee, Dan-Norman," cried the Saxon, "not to put such ideas into
the soft head of King Edward. We pay enow for the Church, though built
but of timber; saints he