illet. And if
everything is well, then there will be found for thee a guide to lead
thee through the forest to the monastery, where thou shalt first sign
thyself for the strict carrying out of our plans; then thou shalt be
wed, if there is no remissness, and carried safely to London, where
thou shalt remain until thy lady has audience, and gains that we seek
of the King. Ah! there are times when we sigh and almost weep for
those good old _pro_-Reformation days, when such ecclesiastical bodies
as ours took their grievances to--Rome. Bah! to have to bribe a
profligate king for--the signing of his name. What does he know about
bequests and inheritances--" The count started and Dempsy all alert
broke in with,--"and freeholds. Thou dost know, count, the monastery
is a freehold in the very centre of Lord Cedric's lands; but--I am
telling secrets; forget what I said." The count fell back listlessly,
a gap made in his thoughts by the sudden disappearance of a clue.

"Charles treats us as mendicants; but if he should chance to see the
coffers of our order, he would know we had received something else
beside a crust for shriving." The count looked up again so quickly,
Dempsy caught himself and wondered what he had been saying, and what
his last words were; for he had been thinking aloud, as it were.

"Aye, aye, I was saying if Charles could see the riches of our
coffers, he would know the sale of Indulgences had not been a little.
Thou seest, count, we have here at the monastery great treasure, our
coffers are filled with priceless articles of virtue that will, no
doubt, be carried to Rome and be laid in the reliquary of Santa Maria
Maggiore or St. Andrew Corsini or St. Peters. We have some priceless
bones--" Adrian shuddered and relaxed his attention--"they have brought
us great, good fortune; we have bits of clothing--thou dost well know
most of the saints were plainly attired--that some day will be worth
much, perhaps not in my day nor thine, but when age comes, when we
grow a little further from the saints. Ah! I see, thou hast not much
interest in my converse--treasure is nothing to thy love-sick heart,
eh! count?"

"Nay, not dead men's bones, indeed thou hast rare wine for such
cumbrous relics that can be turned to naught! And didst thou shrive
the saint for the use of his bones a hundred years hence?"

"Thou art growing facetious, count. Dost think of no virtue but thy
maid's? And art thou sure she will not fall back f