Isel stood aghast, looking at him, while the spoon in her hand went down clattering on the brick floor.

"Dear blessed saints!" seemed to be all she could say.

"Why, whatever do you call that?" cried Haimet. "It sounds to me just as bad as the other, if it isn't worse. I should think, if anything, it were a less heresy to say there were no consecrated priests, than to say that holy Church herself had lost true consecration. Not that there's very much to choose between them, after all; only that you cunning fellows can split straws into twenty bits as soon as we can look at them."

"Do you mean to say that the Church of England has lost true consecration?" gasped Isel.

"If he means one, he means the other," said Haimet, "because our Church is subject to the holy Father."

"There is one Church, and there are many Churches," answered Gerhardt.

"One--holy, unerring, indivisible, not seen of men. This is the Bride, the Lamb's wife; and they that are in her are called, and chosen, and faithful. This is she that shall persevere, and shall overcome, and shall receive the crown of life. But on earth there are many Churches; and these may err, and may utterly fall away. Yea, there be that have done it--that are doing it now."

"I don't understand you a bit!" exclaimed Isel. "I always heard of the Catholic Church, that she was one and could not err; that our Lord the Pope was her head, and the Church of England was a branch of her. Isn't that your doctrine?"

"You mean the same thing, don't you, now?" suggested Flemild, trying to make peace. "I dare be bound, it's only words that differ. They are so queer sometimes. Turn 'em about, and you can make them mean almost anything."

Gerhardt smiled rather sadly, as he rose and put away his carving on one of the broad shelves that ran round the house-place, and served the uses of tables and cupboards.

"Words can easily be twisted," he said, "either by ignorance or malice.

But he is a coward that will deny his words as he truly meant them. G.o.d help me to stand to mine!"

"Well, you'd better mind what I tell you about your preaching,"

responded Haimet. "Leave preaching to the priests, can't you? It is their business, not a weaver's. You keep to your craft."

"Had you not once a preacher here named Pullus?" asked Gerhardt, without replying to the question.

"I think I have heard of him," said Haimet, "but he was before my time."

"I have been told that he preached the Word of G.o.d in this city years ago," said Gerhardt.

"Whom did you say? Cardinal Pullus?" asked Isel, standing up from her cooking. "Ay, he did so! You say well, Haimet, it was before your day; you were only beginning to toddle about when he died. But I've listened to him many a time at Saint Martin's, and on Presthey, too. He used to preach in English, so that the common folks could understand him. Many professed his doctrines. I used to like to hear him, I did--when I was younger. He said nice words, though I couldn't call 'em back now. No, I couldn't."

"I am sorry to hear it; I rather hoped you could," replied Gerhardt.

"Bless you! I never heard aught of that sort yet, that I could tell you again, a Paternoster after I'd gone forth of the door. Words never stay with me; they run in at one ear and out at the other. Seem to do me good, by times; but I never can get 'em back again, no more than you can the rain when it has soaked into the ground."

"If the rain and the words bring forth good fruit, you get them back in the best way of all," said Gerhardt. "To remember the words in your head only, were as fruitless as to gather up rain-drops from the stone or metal into which they cannot penetrate."

"Well, I never had nought of a head-piece," returned Isel. "I've heard my mother tell that I had twenty wallopings ere she could make me say the Paternoster; and I never could learn nought else save the Joy and the Aggerum."

"What do you mean by the 'Aggerum,' Mother?" inquired Haimet.

"Well, isn't that what you call it? Aggerum or Adjerum, or some such outlandish name. It's them little words that prayers begin with."

"'_Deus, in adjutorium_,'" said Gerhardt quietly.

Haimet seemed exceedingly amused. He had attended the schools long enough to learn Latin sufficient to interpret the common prayers and Psalms which formed the private devotions of most educated people. This was because his mother had wished him to be a priest. But having now, in his own estimation, arrived at years of discretion, he declined the calling chosen for him, preferring as he said to go into business, and he had accordingly been bound apprentice to a moneter, or money-changer.

Poor Isel had mourned bitterly over this desertion. To her mind, as to that of most people in her day, the priesthood was the highest calling that could be attained by any middle-cla.s.s man, while trade was a very mean and despicable occupation, far below domestic service. She recognised, however, that Haimet was an exception to most rules, and was likely to take his own way despite of her.

Isel's own lack of education was almost as unusual as Haimet's possession of it. At that time all learning was in the hands of the clergy, the monastic orders, and the women. By the Joy, she meant the Doxology, the English version of which subst.i.tuted "joy" for "glory;"

while the _Adjutorium_ denoted the two responses which follow the Lord's Prayer in the morning service, "O G.o.d, make speed to save us," "O Lord, make haste to help us."

"Can't you say _adjutorium_, Mother?" asked the irreverent youth.

"No, lad, I don't think I can. I'll leave that for thee. One's as good as t'other, for aught I see."

Haimet exploded a second time.

"Good evening!" said Romund's voice, and a cloaked figure, on whose shoulders drops of rain lay glittering, came in at the door. "I thought you were not gone up yet, for I saw the light under the door. Derette, I have news for you. I have just heard that Saint John's anchoritess died yesterday, and I think, if you would wish it, that I could get the anchorhold for you. You may choose between that and G.o.dstowe."

Derette scarcely stood irresolute for a moment.

"I should like the anchorhold best, Brother. Then Mother could come to me whenever she wanted me."

"Is that the only reason?" asked Haimet, half laughing.

"No, not quite," said Derette, with a smile; "but it is a good one."

"Then you make up your mind to that?" questioned Romund.

"Yes, I have made up my mind," replied Derette.

"Very good: then I will make application for it. Good night! no time to stay. Mabel? Oh, she's all right. Farewell!"

And Romund shut the door and disappeared.

"Deary me, that seems done all of a hurry like!" said Isel. "I don't half like such sudden, hasty sort of work. Derette, child, are you sure you'll not be sorry?"

"No, I don't think I shall, Mother. I shall have more liberty in the anchorhold than in the nunnery."

"More liberty, quotha!" cried Isel in amazement. "Whatever can the child mean? More liberty, penned up in two little chambers, and never to leave them all your life, than in a fine large place like G.o.dstowe, with a big garden and cloisters to walk in?"

"Ah, Mother, I don't want liberty for my feet, but for my soul. There will be no abbess nor sisters to tease one in the anchorhold."

"Well, and what does that mean, but never a bit of company? Just your one maid, and tied up to her. And the child calls it 'liberty'!"

"You forget, Mother," said Haimet mischievously. "There will be the Lady Derette. In the cloister they are only plain Sister."

Every recluse had by courtesy the t.i.tle of a baron.

"As if I cared for that rubbish!" said Derette with sublime scorn.

"Dear! I thought you were going on purpose," retorted her brother.

"Whom will you have for your maid, Derette?" asked her sister.

"Ermine, if I might have her," answered Derette with a smile.