"I chanced to be in the little chamber beyond the wainscot with others waiting to escort the Abbot home, and heard them all, and afterward I and they put our marks upon the writing.

As I am a Christian man that is so, though, master, this is not the place that I should have chosen to speak of it, however much I might be wronged." "It will serve my turn," said the enraged knight, "though it is true that I will speak of it louder elsewhere, namely, before the King's Council.

To-morrow, my Lord Abbot, this paper and I go to London, and then you shall learn how well it pays you to try to pluck a Foterell of his own." Now it was the Abbot's turn to be frightened.

His smooth, olive-coloured cheeks sank in and went white, as though already he felt the cord about his throat.

His jewelled hand shook, and he caught the arm of one of his chaplains and hung to it.
"Man," he hissed, "do you think that you can utter such false threats and go hence to ruin me, a consecrated abbot?
I have dungeons here; I have power.