as he did so. The next instant he had wedged himself into the
recess of one of the narrow windows, and there were his pale set face,
his burning eyes, and his ready blade turned upon the assembly.

"By Saint Paul!" said he, "I never thought to find honorable advancement
under the roof of an abbey, but perchance there may, be some room for it
ere you hale me to your prison."

The chapter-house was in an uproar. Never in the long and decorous
history of the Abbey had such a scene been witnessed within its walls.
The monks themselves seemed for an instant to be infected by this spirit
of daring revolt. Their own lifelong fetters hung more loosely as they
viewed this unheard-of defiance of authority. They broke from their
seats on either side and huddled half-scared, half-fascinated, in a
large half-circle round the defiant captive, chattering, pointing,
grimacing, a scandal for all time. Scourges should fall and penance be
done for many a long week before the shadow of that day should pass from
Waverley. But meanwhile there was no effort to bring them back to their
rule. Everything was chaos and disorder. The Abbot had left his seat of
justice and hurried angrily forward, to be engulfed and hustled in the
crowd of his own monks like a sheep-dog who finds himself entangled amid
a flock.

Only the sacrist stood clear. He had taken shelter behind the half-dozen
archers, who looked with some approval and a good deal of indecision at
this bold fugitive from justice.

"On him!" cried the sacrist. "Shall he defy the authority of the court,
or shall one man hold six of you at bay? Close in upon him and seize
him. You, Baddlesmere, why do you hold back?"

The man in question, a tall bushy-bearded fellow, clad like the others
in green jerkin and breeches with high brown boots, advanced slowly,
sword in hand, against Nigel. His heart was not in the business, for
these clerical courts were not popular, and everyone had a tender heart
for the fallen fortunes of the house of Loring and wished well to its
young heir.

"Come, young sir, you have caused scathe enough," said he. "Stand forth
and give yourself up!"

"Come and fetch me, good fellow," said Nigel, with a dangerous smile.

The archer ran in. There was a rasp of steel, a blade flickered like a
swift dart of flame, and the man staggered back, with blood running down
his forearm and dripping from his fingers. He wrung them and growled a
Saxon oath.

"By the black rood of