will
warn your father that if he does not pay eight days from now his rent in
kind and the hundred crowns which he owes, there is a farmer who is more
solvent than he who wants the farm and who will obtain it. As your
father is a good fellow, they will give him eight days--but for that,
they would have turned him out to-day."

"My God! my God!" said the children, weeping and clasping their hands,
"there is no money at home. Our poor father is sick. Alas! what shall we
do?"

"You will do what you can," said the monk, "that is the order of the
prior;" and he made a sign to the young girl to go.

The two children threw themselves into each other's arms, sobbing, and
saying: "Our father will die of this--he will die!"

Croustillac, half-hidden by a post of the shed, had been at once touched
and angered by this scene. At the moment the monk was about to close the
door, the Gascon said to him: "Reverend Father, a word--is this the
Abbey of St. Quentin?"

"Yes, and what of it?" said the monk rudely.

"You will willingly give me a lodging till to-morrow, will you not?"

"Hum--always beggars," said the monk. "Very well; go and ring at the
porter's gate. They will give you a bundle of straw and give you bread
and soup." Then he added: "These vagabonds are the plague of religious
houses."

The adventurer became crimson, drew up his tall form, thrust, with a
blow of his fist, his fur cap over his eyes, struck the earth with his
stick, and cried in a threatening tone: "Zounds! Reverend Father, know
your company a little better, at least."

"Who is this old wallet-bearer?" said the irritated monk.

"Because I carry a wallet it does not follow that I ask alms of you,
Reverend Father," said Croustillac.

"What dost thou want, then?"

"I ask a supper and a shelter because your rich convent can well afford
to give bread and shelter to poor travelers. Charity commands this from
your abbot. And beside, in sheltering Christians, you do not give, you
restore. Your abbey grows very fat from its tithes."

"Wilt thou be quiet, thou old heretic, thou insolent old fellow!"

"You call me an insolent old fellow. Very well; learn, Don Surly, that I
have still a crown in my wallet, and that I can do without your straw
and your soup, Don Ribald."

"What dost thou mean by Don Ribald, rascal that thou art?" said the lay
brother, advancing to the top of the steps. "Take care lest I give thy
old rags a good shaking."

"Since we thee-a