Brother Copas chuckled.

"Don't reproach us," he pleaded. "You see, you've taken us at unawares more or less. But if it really please you--"

"You are very kind," Corona put in; "but I guess that sort of thing must come naturally, to be any good. You can't think how naturally Brother Manby went on dropping them; till by and by he told me what a mort of Americans came here to have a look around. Then, of course, I saw how he must strike them as the real thing."

Brother Copas under lowered eyebrows regarded the young face. It was innocent and entirely serious.

"So I said," she went on, "that I came from America too, and it was a long way, and please would he hurry up with the bread and beer?

After that we made friends, and I had a good time."

"Are you telling me that you spent the forenoon drinking beer in the porter's lodge?"

Corona's laugh was like the bubbling of water in a hidden well.

"It wasn't what you might call a c.o.c.ktail," she confided. "The tiredest traveller wouldn't ask for crushed ice to it, not with a solid William-the-Conqueror wall to lean against."

Brother Copas admitted that the tenuity of the Wayfarer's Ale had not always escaped the Wayfarer's criticism. He was about to explain that, in a country of vested interests, publicans and teetotallers agreed to require that beer supplied _gratis_ in the name of charity must be innocuous and unenticing. But at this moment Brother Manby signalled from his lodge that the procession was approaching across the outer court, and he hurried away to join the crowd of Brethren in their scramble upstairs to the Hundred Men's Hall.

The procession hove in sight; in number about a dozen, walking two-and-two, headed by Master Blanchminster and the Bishop.

Nurse Branscome stepped across to the child and stood by her, whispering the names of the dignitaries as they drew near.

The dear little gaitered white-headed clergyman--the one in the college cap--was the Master; the tall one, likewise in gaiters, the Bishop.

"--and the gentleman behind him is Mr. Yeo, the Mayor of Merchester.

That's the meaning of his chain, you know."

"Why, is he dangerous?" asked Corona.

"His chain of office, dear. It's the rule in England."

"You don't say! . . . Over in America we've never thought of that: we let our grafters run loose. But who's the tall one next to him?

My! but can't you see him, Branny, with his long legs crossed?"

Branny was puzzled.

"--on a tomb, in chain armour, with his hands _so_." Corona put her two palms together, as in the act of prayer.

"Oh, I see! Well, as it happens, his house has a private chapel with five or six of just those tombs--all of his ancestors. He's Sir John Shaftesbury, and he's p.r.i.c.ked for High Sheriff next year. One of the oldest families in the county; in all England, indeed. Everyone loves and respects Sir John."

"Didn't I say so!" The small palms were pressed together ecstatically. "And does he keep a dwarf, same as they used to?"

"Eh? . . . If you mean the little man beside him, with the straw-coloured gloves, that's Mr. Bamberger; Mr. Julius Bamberger, our Member of Parliament."

"Say that again, please."

The child looked up, wide-eyed.

"He's our Member of Parliament for Merchester; immensely rich, they say."

"Well," decided Corona after a moment's thought, "I'm going to pretend he isn't, anyway. I'm going to pretend Sir John found him and brought him home from Palestine."

Branny named, one by one, the rest of the Trustees, all persons of importance.

Mr. Colt and the Bishop's chaplain brought up the rear.

The procession came to a halt. Old Warboise had not followed in the wake of the Brethren, but stood at the foot of the stairway, and leaned there on his staff. His face was pale, his jaw set square to perform his duty. His hand trembled, though, as he held out a paper, accosting the Bishop.

"My lord," he said, "some of the Brethren desire you as Visitor to read this Pet.i.tion."

"Hey?" interrupted the Master, taken by surprise. "Tut--tut--my good Warboise, what's the meaning of this?"

"Very sorry, Master," Brother Warboise mumbled: "and meaning no disrespect to you, that have always ruled St. Hospital like a gentleman. But a party must reckon with his conscience."

The Bishop eyed the doc.u.ment dubiously, holding it between finger and thumb.

"Some affair of discipline?" he asked, turning to the Master.

"Romanisers, my lord--Romanisers: that's what's the matter!" answered Brother Warboise, lifting his voice and rapping the point of his staff on the gravel.

Good Master Blanchminster, shocked by this address, lifted his eyes beyond Warboise and perceived the womenkind gathered around their doorways, listening. Nothing of the sort had happened in all his long and beneficent rule. He was scandalised. He lost his temper.

"Brother Warboise," he said severely, "whatever your grievances--and I will inquire into it later--you have chosen a highly indecorous and, er, offensive way of obtruding it. At this moment, sir, we are going together to dine and to thank G.o.d for many mercies vouchsafed to us. If you have any sense of these you will stand aside now and follow us when we have pa.s.sed. His lordship will read your pet.i.tion at a more convenient opportunity."

"Quite so, my good man." The Bishop took his cue and pocketed the paper, nodding shortly. The procession moved forward and mounted the staircase, Brother Warboise stumping after it at a little distance, scowling as he climbed, scowling after the long back and wide shoulders of Mr. Colt as they climbed directly ahead of him.

Around their tables in the Hundred Men's Hall the Brethren were gathered expectant.

"Buzz for the Bishop--here he comes!" quoted Brother Copas, and stood forth ready to deliver the Latin grace as the visitors found their places at the high table.

St. Hospital used a long Latin grace on holy-days; "and," Brother Copas had once observed, "the market-price of Latinity in England will ensure that we always have at least one Brother capable of repeating it."

" . . . _Gratias agimus pro Alberico de Albo Monasterio, in fide defuncto_--"

Here Brother Copas paused, and the Brethren responded "_Amen!_"

"_Ac pro Henrico de Bello Campo, Cardinali_."

As the grace proceeded Brother Copas dwelt on the broad vowels with gusto.

"..._Itaque precamur; Miserere nostri, te quaesumus Domine, tuisque donis, quae de tua benignitate percepturi sumus, benedicito.

Per Jesum Christum, Dominum nostrum. Amen_."

His eyes wandered down to the carving-table, where Brother Biscoe stood ready, as his turn was, to direct and apportion the helpings.

He bowed to the dignitaries on the dais, and walked to his place at the board next to Brother Warboise.

"Old Biscoe's carving," he announced as he took his seat. "You and I will have to take a slice of _odium theologic.u.m_ together, for auld lang syne."

Sure enough, when his helping of duck came to him, it was the back.

Brother Warboise received another back for his portion.