, good men and bad men, undoubted saints
and unmistakable sinners, drifted forward and back through every
country, came by night and by day to every household, and lived their
lives in that unbounded and perilous freedom that put them at one
moment upon the top limit of their ambition or their delight, and
plunged them into violent and bloody death almost ere the moment was
gone. It was a time when "fatten at thy neighbour's expense" was the
one commandment observed by many who outwardly maintained a profound
respect for the original ten; and any man whose wit taught him how
this commandment could be obeyed with the greatest profit and the
least danger was in high standing among his fellows.

Hence it was that Francis Almoign, Knight of the Voracious Stomach,
cumbered with no domestic ties worthy of mention, a tall slim fellow
who knew the appropriate hour to slit a throat or to wheedle a maid,
came to be Grand Marshal of the Guild of Go-as-you-Please.

This secret band, under its Grand Marshal, roved over Europe and
thrived mightily. Each member was as stout hearted a villain as you
could see. Sometimes their doings came to light, and they were forced
to hasten across the borders of an outraged territory into new
pastures. Yet they fared well in the main, for they could fight and
drink and sing; and many a fair one smiled upon them, in spite of
their perfectly outrageous morals.

So, one day, they came into the neighbourhood of Oyster-le-Main, where
much confusion reigned among the good monks. Sir Godfrey Disseisin
over at Wantley had let Richard Lion Heart depart for the Holy Wars
without him. "Like father like son," the people muttered in their
discontent. "Sure, the Church will gravely punish this second
offence." To all these whisperings of rumour the Grand Marshal of the
Guild paid fast attention; for he was a man who laid his plans deeply,
and much in advance of the event. He saw the country was fat and the
neighbours foolish. He took note of the handsome tithes that came in
to Oyster-le-Main for the support of the monks. He saw all these
things, and set himself to thinking.

Upon a stormy afternoon, when the light was nearly gone out of the
sky, a band of venerable pilgrims stood at the great gates of the
Monastery. Their garments were tattered, their shoes were in sad
disrepair. They had walked (they said) all the way from Jerusalem.
Might they find shelter for the night? The tale they told, and the
mere s