for well he loves a brave and
knightly deed. With all haste fit letters shall be written to win thee a
ready entrance to his presence--to his heart thou must win thine own
way, as thou hast with us."

"Teach him not, then," said Lanfranc, "too piteously of the sorrows of
our brethren, for a few monks more or less matter not to him, but
represent the arrogance of this Sarrasin, and how clearly he claims the
title of Lord of the Seas. That will touch best our sovereign lord."

"Is not my Lord Maugher still in Guernsey?" asked the abbot, pondering.

"Yea, he is," I said.

"And how acts he in this trouble? Is he besieged with the brethren, or
goes he free?"

"My lords," said I, "as I was led captive through the Sarrasin's castle,
I saw the same evil beast that my lord calls Folly, but men his familiar
demon. I saw it in the very presence of Geoffroy; therefore I think
these evil men are hand and glove together."

"Nay--wilt thou swear this?" said Lanfranc.

"Ay, that I will," I said.

"Then this also must be made known the duke," said Lanfranc, darkly.

"Now, my dear son," said the abbot, "retire to our chamberlain. Cast off
these poor weeds, and take from him aught in his presses that befits
thy dignity, and then return to us, that we may see our vicomte's nephew
in his bravery."

With a courtly bow I left them.

Now, the abbot's chamberlain found me a fair good suit, more courtly
than I had ever worn, and I scarce knew myself in the glory of its rich,
dyed cloth. Fair linen next my skin, fit for an abbot's wear, a long
blue tunic broidered with gold, and a trim girdle, a grand surcoat of
damask, and a gay red cloak over all, with an emerald brooch on my right
shoulder. With bright stockings and a little ribboned hat I was no
longer Nigel the scholar of the Vale, but Nigel de Bessin, gentleman and
courtly soldier.

So drest and refreshed with food, I returned to my lord's chamber, where
at mine uncle's footstool I heard these noble lords and churchmen speak
of the circle of events from England to Italy, and through all their
words the one great name of William seemed to be present as the centre
of their surmisings. So deep had this son of Rollo stamped himself in
the life of those rare days.

"Strange news from England, this," said one, "now that the Atheling is
dead. We can guess of a truth whom the royal priest will light upon, as
he grows near his end."

"He loves not Godwin's brood," said another.