NEVER had the peaceful atmosphere of the old Cistercian housebeen so rudely ruffled. Never had there been insurrection sosudden, so short, and so successful. Yet the Abbot Berghersh wasa man of too firm a grain to allow one bold outbreak to imperilthe settled order of his great household. In a few hot andbitter words, he compared their false brother's exit to theexpulsion of our first parents from the garden, and more thanhinted that unless a reformation occurred some others of thecommunity might find themselves in the same evil and perilouscase. Having thus pointed the moral and reduced his flock to afitting state of docility, he dismissed them once more to theirlabors and withdrew himself to his own private chamber, there toseek spiritual aid in the discharge of the duties of his highoffice.

The Abbot was still on his knees, when a gentle tapping at thedoor of his cell broke in upon his orisons.

Rising in no very good humor at the interruption, he gave theword to enter; but his look of impatience softened down into apleasant and paternal smile as his eyes fell upon his visitor.

He was a thin-faced, yellow-haired youth, rather above the middlesize, comely and well shapen, with straight, lithe figure andeager, boyish features. His clear, pensive gray eyes, and quick,delicate expression, spoke of a nature which had unfolded farfrom the boisterous joys and sorrows of the world. Yet there wasa set of the mouth and a prominence of the chin which relievedhim of any trace of effeminacy. Impulsive he might be,enthusiastic, sensitive, with something sympathetic and adaptivein his disposition; but an observer of nature's tokens would haveconfidently pledged himself that there was native firmness andstrength underlying his gentle, monk-bred ways.

The youth was not clad in monastic garb, but in lay attire,though his jerkin, cloak and hose were all of a sombre hue, asbefitted one who dwelt in sacred precincts. A broad leatherstrap hanging from his shoulder supported a scrip or satchel suchas travellers were wont to carry. In one hand he grasped a thickstaff pointed and shod with metal, while in the other he held hiscoif or bonnet, which bore in its front a broad pewter medalstamped with the image of Our Lady of Rocamadour.

"Art ready, then, fair son?" said the Abbot. "This is indeed aday of comings and of going. It is strange that in one twelvehours the Abbey should have cast off its foulest weed and shouldnow lose what we are fain to look upon as our choicest blossom."

"You speak too kindly, father," the youth answered. "If I had mywill I should never go forth, but should end my days here inBeaulieu. It hath been my home as far back as my mind can carryme, and it is a sore thing for me to have to leave it."

"Life brings many a cross," said the Abbot gently. "Who iswithout them? Your going forth is a grief to us as well as toyourself. But there is no help. I had given my foreword andsacred promise to your father, Edric the Franklin, that at theage of twenty you should be sent out into the world to see foryourself how you liked the savor of it. Seat thee upon thesettle, Alleyne, for you may need rest ere long."

The youth sat down as directed, but reluctantly and withdiffidence. The Abbot stood by the narrow window, and his longblack shadow fell slantwise across the rush-strewn floor.

"Twenty years ago," he said, "your father, the Franklin ofMinstead, died, leaving to the Abbey three hides of rich land inthe hundred of Malwood, and leaving to us also his infant son oncondition that we should rear him until he came to man's estate.This he did partly because your mother was dead, and partlybecause your elder brother, now Socman of Minstead, had alreadygiven sign of that fierce and rude nature which would make him nofit companion for you. It was his desire and request, however,that you should not remain in the cloisters, but should at a ripeage return into the world."

"But, father," interrupted the young man "it is surely true thatI am already advanced several degrees in clerkship?"

"Yes, fair son, but not so far as to bar you from the garb younow wear or the life which you must now lead. You have beenporter?"

"Yes, father."

"Exorcist?"

"Yes, father."

"Reader?"

"Yes, father."

"Acolyte?"

"But have sworn no vow of constancy or chastity?"

"No, father."

"Then you are free to follow a worldly life. But let me hear,ere you start, what gifts you take away with you from Beaulieu?Some I already know. There is the playing of the citole and therebeck. Our choir will be dumb without you. You carve too?"

The youth's pale face flushed with the pride of the skilledworkman. "Yes, holy father," he answered. "Thanks to goodbrother Bartholomew, I carve in wood and in ivory, and can dosomething also in silver and in bronze. From brother Francis Ihave learned to paint on vellum, on glass, and on metal, with aknowledge of those pigments and essences which can preserve thecolor against damp or a biting air. Brother Luke hath given mesome skill in damask work, and in the enamelling of shrines,tabernacles, diptychs and triptychs. For the rest, I know alittle of the making of covers, the cutting of precious stones,and the fashioning of instruments."

"A goodly list, truly," cried the superior with a smile. "Whatclerk of Cambrig or of Oxenford could say as much? But of thyreading--hast not so much to show there, I fear?"

"No, father, it hath been slight enough. Yet, thanks to our goodchancellor, I am not wholly unlettered. I have read Ockham,Bradwardine, and other of the schoolmen, together with thelearned Duns Scotus and the book of the holy Aquinas."

"But of the things of this world, what have you gathered fromyour reading? From this high window you may catch a glimpse overthe wooden point and the smoke of Bucklershard of the mouth ofthe Exe, and the shining sea. Now, I pray you Alleyne, if a manwere to take a ship and spread sail across yonder waters, wheremight he hope to arrive?"

The youth pondered, and drew a plan amongst the rushes with thepoint of his staff. "Holy father," said he, "he would come uponthose parts of France which are held by the King's Majesty. Butif he trended to the south he might reach Spain and the BarbaryStates. To his north would be Flanders and the country of theEastlanders and of the Muscovites."

"True. And how if, after reaching the King's possessions, hestill journeyed on to the eastward?"

"He would then come upon that part of France which is still indispute, and he might hope to reach the famous city of Avignon,where dwells our blessed father, the prop of Christendom."

"And then?"

"Then he would pass through the land of the Almains and the greatRoman Empire, and so to the country of the Huns and of theLithuanian pagans, beyond which lies the great city ofConstantine and the kingdom of the unclean followers of Mahmoud."

"And beyond that, fair son?"

"Beyond that is Jerusalem and the Holy Land, and the great riverwhich hath its source in the Garden of Eden."

"And then?"

"Nay, good father, I cannot tell. Methinks the end of the worldis not far from there."

"Then we can still find something to teach thee, Alleyne," saidthe Abbot complaisantly. "Know that many strange nations liebetwixt there and the end of the world. There is the country ofthe Amazons, and the country of the dwarfs, and the country ofthe fair but evil women who slay with beholding, like thebasilisk. Beyond that again is the kingdom of Prester John andof the great Cham. These things I know for very sooth, for I hadthem from that pious Christian and valiant knight, Sir John deMandeville, who stopped twice at Beaulieu on his way to and fromSouthampton, and discoursed to us concerning what he had seenfrom the reader's desk in the refectory, until there was many agood brother who got neither bit nor sup, so stricken were theyby his strange tales."

"I would fain know, father," asked the young man, "what there maybe at the end of the world?"

"There are some things," replied the Abbot gravely, "into whichit was never intended that we should inquire. But you have along road before you. Whither will you first turn?"

"To my brother's at Minstead. If he be indeed an ungodly andviolent man, there is the more need that I should seek him outand see whether I cannot turn him to better ways."

The Abbot shook his head. "The Socman of Minstead hath earned anevil name over the country side," he said. "If you must go tohim, see at least that he doth not turn you from the narrow pathupon which you have learned to tread. But you are in God'skeeping, and Godward should you ever look in danger and introuble. Above all, shun the snares of women, for they are everset for the foolish feet of the young. Kneel down, my child, andtake an old man's blessing."

Alleyne Edricson bent his head while the Abbot poured out hisheartfelt supplication that Heaven would watch over this youngsoul, now going forth into the darkness and danger of the world.It was no mere form for either of them. To them the outside lifeof mankind did indeed seem to be one of violence and of sin,beset with physical and still more with spiritual danger.Heaven, too, was very near to them in those days. God's directagency was to be seen in the thunder and the rainbow, thewhirlwind and the lightning. To the believer, clouds of angelsand confessors, and martyrs, armies of the sainted and thesaved, were ever stooping over their struggling brethren uponearth, raising, encouraging, and supporting them. It was thenwith a lighter heart and a stouter courage that the young manturned from the Abbot's room, while the latter, following him tothe stair-head, finally commended him to the protection of theholy Julian, patron of travellers.

Underneath, in the porch of the Abbey, the monks had gathered togive him a last God-speed. Many had brought some parting tokenby which he should remember them. There was brother Bartholomewwith a crucifix of rare carved ivory, and brother Luke With awhite-backed psalter adorned with golden bees, and brotherFrancis with the "Slaying of the Innocents" most daintily setforth upon vellum. All these were duly packed away deep in thetraveller's scrip, and above them old pippin-faced brotherAthanasius had placed a parcel of simnel bread and rammel cheese,with a small flask of the famous blue-sealed Abbey wine. So,amid hand-shakings and laughings and blessings, Alleyne Edricsonturned his back upon Beaulieu.

At the turn of the road he stopped and gazed back. There was thewide-spread building which he knew so well, the Abbot's house,the long church, the cloisters with their line of arches, allbathed and mellowed in the evening sun. There too was the broadsweep of the river Exe, the old stone well, the canopied niche ofthe Virgin, and in the centre of all the cluster of white-robedfigures who waved their hands to him. A sudden mist swam upbefore the young man's eyes, and he turned away upon his journeywith a heavy heart and a choking throat.