e was
everywhere, save that from a remote quarter of the Monastery came a
faint sound of music. Upon such a time as Christmas Eve, it might well
be that carols in plenty would be sung or studied by the saintly men.
But this sounded like no carol. At times the humming murmur of the
storm drowned the measure, whatever it was, and again it came along
the dark, cold entries, clearer than before. Away in a long vaulted
room, whose only approach was a passage in the thickness of the walls,
safe from the intrusion of the curious, a company is sitting round a
cavernous chimney, where roars and crackles a great blazing heap of
logs. Surely, for a monkish song, their melody is most odd; yet monks
they are, for all are clothed in gray, like Father Anselm, and a rope
round the waist of each. But what can possibly be in that huge silver
rundlet into which they plunge their goblets so often? The song grows
louder than ever.

We are the monks of Oyster-le-Main,
Hooded and gowned as fools may see;
Hooded and gowned though we monks be,
Is that a reason we should abstain
From cups of the gamesome Burgundie?

Though our garments make it plain
That we are Monks of Oyster-le-Main,
That is no reason we should abstain
From cups of the gamesome Burgundie.

"I'm sweating hot," says one. "How for disrobing, brothers? No danger
on such a day as this, foul luck to the snow!"

Which you see was coarse and vulgar language for any one to be heard
to use, and particularly so for a godly celibate. But the words were
scarce said, when off fly those monks' hoods, and the waist-ropes
rattle as they fall on the floor, and the gray gowns drop down and are
kicked away.

Every man jack of them is in black armour, with a long sword buckled
to his side.

"Long cheer to the Guild of Go-as-you-Please!" they shouted, hoarsely,
and dashed their drinking-horns on the board. Then filled them again.

"Give us a song, Hubert," said one. "The day's a dull one out in the
world."

[Illustration]

"Wait a while," replied Hubert, whose nose was hidden in his cup;
"this new Wantley tipple is a vastly comfortable brew. What d'ye call
the stuff?"

"Malvoisie, thou oaf?" said another; "and of a delicacy many degrees
above thy bumpkin palate. Leave profaning it, therefore, and to thy
refrain without more ado."

"Most unctuous sir," replied Hubert, "in demanding me this favour, you
seem forgetful that the juice of Pleasure is