yet kindly
wit.

They supped at a round table of small size, in the very centre of the
huge apartment. It formed a point of light and brightness from which
all else merged into shadow, and yet deeper shadow, until the eye
reached the dark panelling of the walls.

The light seemed to centre in the Knight--white and silver; the colour,
in the figure of the Bishop--crimson and gold.

In and out of the shadows, swift and silent, on sandalled feet, moved
the lay-brothers serving the feast; watchful of each detail; quickly
supplying every need.

At length they loaded the table with fruit; put upon it fresh flagons
of wine, and finally withdrew; each black-robed figure merging into the
black shadows, and vanishing in silence.

The Bishop's Chaplain appeared in a distant doorway.

"_Benedicite_," said Symon of Worcester, looking up.

"_Deus_," replied the Chaplain, making a profound obeisance.

Then he stood erect--a grim, austere figure, hard features, hollow
eyes, half-shrouded within his cowl.

He looked with sinister disapproval at the distant table, laden with
fruit and flagons; at the Bishop and the Knight, now sitting nigh to
one another; the Bishop in his chair of state facing the door, the
Knight, on a high-backed seat at the Bishop's right hand, half-way
round the table.

"Holly and Mistletoe," muttered the Chaplain, as he closed the great
door.

"Yea, verily! Mistletoe and Holly," he repeated, as he strode to his
cell. "The Reverend Father sups with the World, and indulges the
Flesh. Methinks the Devil cannot be far off."

Nor was he.

He was very near.

He had looked over the Chaplain's shoulder as he made his false
obeisance in the doorway.

But he liked not the pure white of the Knight's dress, and he feared
the clear light in the Prelate's eyes. So, when the Chaplain closed
the door, the Devil stayed on the outside, and now walked beside the
Chaplain along the passage leading to his cell.

There is no surer way of securing the company of the Devil, than to
make sure he is at that moment busy with another--particularly if that
other chance to be the most saintly man you know, and merely
displeasing to you, at the moment, because he hath not bidden you to
sup with him. The Devil and the Chaplain made a night of it.

The Bishop's gentle "_Benedicite_" spread white wings and flew, like an
affrighted dove, over the head of the bowing Chaplain, into the chill
passage beyond.

But, just