s, which the
Baron mistook for a little gust of wind behind the arras.

"My ruddy Burgundy!" he groaned, "going, going! and my rich, fruity
Malvoisie,--all gone! Father Anselm didn't appreciate it, either, that
night he dined here last September. He said I had put egg-shells in
it. Egg-shells! Pooh! As if any parson could talk about wine. These
Church folk had better mind their business, and say grace, and eat
their dinner, and be thankful. That's what I say. Egg-shells,
forsooth!" The Baron was passing through the chapel, and he
mechanically removed his helmet; but he did not catch sight of the
glittering eye of Father Anselm himself, who had stepped quickly into
the confessional, and there in the dark watched Sir Godfrey with a
strange, mocking smile. When he had the chapel to himself again, the
tall gray figure of the Abbot appeared in full view, and craftily
moved across the place. If you had been close beside him, and had
listened hard, you could have heard a faint clank and jingle beneath
his gown as he moved, which would have struck you as not the sort of
noise a hair-shirt ought to make. But I am glad you were not there;
for I do not like the way the Abbot looked at all, especially so near
Christmas-tide, when almost every one somehow looks kinder as he goes
about in the world. Father Anselm moved out of the chapel, and passed
through lonely corridors out of Wantley Manor, out of the court-yard,
and so took his way to Oyster-le-Main in the gathering dusk. The few
people who met him received his blessing, and asked no questions; for
they were all serfs of the glebe, and well used to meeting the Abbot
going and coming near Wantley Manor.

Meanwhile, Sir Godfrey paced along. "To think," he continued, aloud,
"to think the country could be rid of this monster, this guzzling
serpent, in a few days! Plenty would reign again. Public peace of mind
would be restored. The cattle would increase, the crops would grow, my
rents treble, and my wines be drunk no more by a miserable,
ignorant--but, no! I'm her father. Elaine shall never be permitted to
sacrifice herself for one dragon, or twenty dragons, either."

"Why, what's the matter, papa?"

Sir Godfrey started. There was Miss Elaine in front of him; and she
had put on one of the new French gowns he had brought over with him.

"Matter? Plenty of matter!" he began, unluckily. "At least, nothing is
the matter at all, my dear. What a question! Am I not back all safe
from