settled down in his seat as one who has made up his mind. "Let
the case of the summoner be laid before me," said he. "Justice shall be
done, and the offender shall be punished, be he noble or simple. Let the
plaint be brought before the court."

The tale of the summoner, though rambling and filled with endless legal
reiteration, was only too clear in its essence. Red Swire, with his
angry face framed in white bristles, was led in, and confessed to his
ill treatment of the official. A second culprit, a little wiry nut-brown
archer from Churt, had aided and abetted in the deed. Both of them were
ready to declare that young Squire Nigel Loring knew nothing of the
matter. But then there was the awkward incident of the tearing of the
writs. Nigel, to whom a lie was an impossibility, had to admit that with
his own hands he had shredded those august documents. As to an excuse or
an explanation, he was too proud to advance any. A cloud gathered over
the brow of the Abbot, and the sacrist gazed with an ironical smile at
the prisoner, while a solemn hush fell over the chapter-house as the
case ended and only, judgment remained.

"Squire Nigel," said the Abbot, "it was for you, who are, as all men
know, of ancient lineage in this land, to give a fair example by which
others should set their conduct. Instead of this, your manor house has
ever been a center for the stirring up of strife, and now not content
with your harsh showing toward us, the Cistercian monks of Waverley,
you have even marked your contempt for the King's law, and through your
servants have mishandled the person of his messenger. For such offenses
it is in my power to call the spiritual terrors of the Church upon your
head, and yet I would not be harsh with you, seeing that you are young,
and that even last week you saved the life of a servant of the Abbey
when in peril. Therefore, it is by temporal and carnal means that I
will use my power to tame your overbold spirit, and to chasten that
headstrong and violent humor which has caused such scandal in your
dealings with our Abbey. Bread and water for six weeks from now to the
Feast of Saint Benedict, with a daily exhortation from our chaplain,
the pious Father Ambrose, may still avail to bend the stiff neck and to
soften the hard heart."

At this ignominious sentence by which the proud heir of the house of
Loring would share the fate of the meanest village poacher, the hot
blood of Nigel rushed to his face, and