fen,
and the last gray light died away. Yet still you could hear the
hissing snow beat down through the bramble-thorn and the dry leaves.
After evening was altogether set in, Hubert brought the knight a
supper that was not a meal a hungry man might be over joyful at
seeing; yet had Hubert (in a sort of fellowship towards one who seemed
scarcely longer seasoned in manhood than himself, and whom he had seen
blacken eyes in a very valiant manner) secretly prepared much better
food than had been directed by his worship the Abbot.

The prisoner feigned sleep, and started up at the rattle which the
plate made as it was set down under his bars.

"Is it morning?" he asked.

"Morning, forsooth!" Hubert answered. "Three more hours, and we reach
only midnight." And both young men (for different reasons) wished in
their hearts it were later.

"Thou speakest somewhat curtly for a friar," said Geoffrey.

"Alas, I am but a novice, brother," whined the minstrel, "and fall
easily back into my ancient and godless syntax. There is food. Pax
vobiscum, son of the flesh." Then Hubert went over to the closet, and
very quietly unlocking the door removed the crocodile and the various
other implements that were necessary in bringing into being the dread
Dragon of Wantley. He carried them away to a remote quarter of the
Monastery, where the Guild began preparations that should terrify any
superstitious witness of their journey to get the Baron's wine.
Geoffrey, solitary and watchful in his chilly cage, knew what work
must be going on, and waited his time in patience.

[Illustration: Elaine cometh into the Cellar]

At supper over at Wantley there was but slight inclination to polite
banter. Only the family Chaplain, mindful that this was Christmas Eve,
attempted to make a little small talk with Sir Godfrey.

"Christmas," he observed to the Baron, "is undoubtedly coming."

As the Baron did not appear to have any rejoinder to this, the young
divine continued, pleasantly.

"Though indeed," he said, "we might make this assertion upon any day
of the three hundred and sixty-five, and (I think) remain accurate."

"The celery," growled the Baron, looking into his plate.

"Quite so," cried the Chaplain, cheerily. He had failed to catch the
remark. "Though of course everything does depend on one's point of
view, after all."

"That celery, Whelpdale!" roared Sir Godfrey.

The terrified Buttons immediately dropped a large venison pasty into