“Your horses are happy enough,” he said.  “We had a load of fresh beans sent in to-day.  And you, Chris, are you hungry?  Supper will be here immediately.  Brother James told the guest-cook as soon as you came.”

He seemed to want no answer, but talked on genially and restfully about the commissioners who had come from Cluny to see after their possessions in England, and their queer French ways.

“Dom Philippe would not touch the muscadel at first, and now he cannot have too much.  He clamoured for claret at first, and we had to give him some.  But he knows better now.  But he says mass like a holy angel of God, and is a very devout man in all ways.  But they are going soon.”

Dom Anthony fulfilled to perfection the ideal laid down for a guest-master in the Custumal.  He showed, indeed, the “cheerful hospitality to guests” by which “the good name of the monastery was enhanced, friendships multiplied, enmities lessened, God honoured, and charity increased.”  He recognised perfectly well the confused terror in Christopher’s mind and his anxiety to make a good beginning, and smoothed down the tendency to awkwardness that would otherwise have shown itself.  He had a happy tranquil face, with wide friendly eyes that almost disappeared when he laughed, and a row of even white teeth.

As he talked on, Christopher furtively examined his habit, though he knew every detail of it well enough already.  He had, of course, left his cowl, or ample-sleeved singing gown, in the sacristy on leaving the church, and was in his black frock girded with the leather belt, and the scapular over it, hanging to the ground before and behind.  His hood, Christopher noticed, was creased and flat as if he were accustomed to sit back at his ease.  He wore strong black leather boots that just showed beneath his habit, and a bunch of keys, duplicates of those of the camerarius and cook, hung on his right side.  He was tonsured according to the Benedictine pattern, and his lips and cheeks were clean-shaven.

He noticed presently that Christopher was eyeing hum, and put his hand in friendly fashion on the young man’s knee.

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “yours is ready too.  Dom Franklin looked it out to-day, and asked me whether it would be the right size.  But of the boots I am not so sure.”

There was a clink and a footstep outside, and the monk glanced out.

“Supper is here,” he said, and stood up to look at the table—­the polished clothless top laid ready with a couple of wooden plates and knives, a pewter tankard, salt-cellar and bread.  There was a plain chair with arms drawn up to it.  The rest of the room, which Christopher had scarcely noticed before, was furnished plainly and efficiently, and had just that touch of ornament that was intended to distinguish it from a cell.  The floor was strewn with clean rushes; a couple of iron candlesticks stood on the mantelpiece, and the white walls had one or two religious objects hanging on them—­a wooden crucifix opposite the table, a framed card bearing an “Image of Pity” with an indulgenced prayer illuminated beneath, a little statue of St. Pancras on a bracket over the fire, and a clear-written copy of rules for guests hung by the low oak door.