I have not heard
a man speak better since old Dom Bertrand died, who was at one time
chaplain to the White Company. He was a very valiant man, but at
the battle of Brignais he was spitted through the body by a Hainault
man-at-arms. For this we had an excommunication read against the man,
when next we saw our holy father at Avignon; but as we had not his name,
and knew nothing of him, save that he rode a dapple-gray roussin, I have
feared sometimes that the blight may have settled upon the wrong man."

"Your Company has been, then, to bow knee before our holy father, the
Pope Urban, the prop and centre of Christendom?" asked Alleyne, much
interested. "Perchance you have yourself set eyes upon his august face?"

"Twice I saw him," said the archer. "He was a lean little rat of a man,
with a scab on his chin. The first time we had five thousand crowns out
of him, though he made much ado about it. The second time we asked ten
thousand, but it was three days before we could come to terms, and I
am of opinion myself that we might have done better by plundering the
palace. His chamberlain and cardinals came forth, as I remember, to
ask whether we would take seven thousand crowns with his blessing and
a plenary absolution, or the ten thousand with his solemn ban by bell,
book and candle. We were all of one mind that it was best to have the
ten thousand with the curse; but in some way they prevailed upon Sir
John, so that we were blest and shriven against our will. Perchance it
is as well, for the Company were in need of it about that time."

The pious Alleyne was deeply shocked by this reminiscence. Involuntarily
he glanced up and around to see if there were any trace of those
opportune levin-flashes and thunderbolts which, in the "Acta Sanctorum,"
were wont so often to cut short the loose talk of the scoffer. The
autumn sun streamed down as brightly as ever, and the peaceful red path
still wound in front of them through the rustling, yellow-tinted forest,
Nature seemed to be too busy with her own concerns to heed the dignity
of an outraged pontiff. Yet he felt a sense of weight and reproach
within his breast, as though he had sinned himself in giving ear to such
words. The teachings of twenty years cried out against such license. It
was not until he had thrown himself down before one of the many wayside
crosses, and had prayed from his heart both for the archer and for
himself, that the dark cloud rolled back again from his sp